


Molasses and Taffy

by wily_one24



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-14
Updated: 2007-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 84,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wily_one24/pseuds/wily_one24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how bad things get, they always said, it could always get worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> **Rating:** PG-13, nothing more than what was on the show. I even kept the language down on this one.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things.   
> **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** No matter how bad things get, they always said, it could always get worse.  
>  **Warnings:** None, really, other than "oh my god, the ANGST". 
> 
> Veronica's POV.

***  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part one**  
***

The ground, rough gravel of roof bitumen, digs into her knees as she collapses. She can't breathe and it washes over her, like molasses and taffy, thick and choking. 

Her father is dead and she has nothing. 

Wants nothing. 

Is nothing.

And Cassidy's words, so stretched out and warped with anguish she can barely recognize him, wash over her, through her. Into her, like the piercing volts he sends into her arm and through her blood. 

She wants to cry for Keith to help her, but he's already gone. Falling to the ground like debris from a fireworks display. 

"No!"

She's so covered in the sticky thick of it, that molasses and taffy, that she can't move and everything else happens too fast. There's a struggle, an elbow in her side, the sound of a taser and Logan groaning. 

And then she feels the gun in her hand and sees Cassidy standing there. 

He did it. She doesn't even know which 'it' she's thinking about. There's too many at this point. And all she knows is that he’ll be led away in handcuffs ( _like a guilty man_ ) and kept in storage for a year ( _like forgotten leftovers_ ) and when he goes to trial, he's going to get off ( _like Aaron_ ), get away with destroying several lives ( _like Woody_ ), and get away with raping her ( _again_ ). 

She can't do that. 

She can't let him walk away. Not after...

"Give me the gun, Veronica."

Not after all he did...

"You're not a killer."

Her finger squeezes slightly and she wonders if the searing heat comes from the metal, the gun, the answer to all the problems she can see. Or if her grief, her anger, her disgust and disbelief are scratching at the surface of her skin, making it red hot with urge. 

To kill. 

And maybe Logan doesn’t know her at all, his voice keeps coming, soft and gentle. She can hear him shaking, everything in him, and she knows he’s scared. Scared for her, scared of losing something, someone else, scared of being lost again. Maybe that’s her. 

Maybe all she needs to do now is what she couldn’t do a year ago, with a gun pointed right down at Aaron’s broken and bleeding body. Just finish squeezing the trigger and there’ll be no chance of this one getting off on a technicality. 

Logan’s fingers are on hers, taking the gun, and she lets him, because maybe he does know her after all and she’s not a killer. 

She’s not anything anymore. 

Everything is slow, but it goes too fast and she can’t seem to understand what’s happening, can’t do anything with her leaden limbs, frozen over and weighted down, except fall into Logan and he shouldn’t feel so good. He hurts her, he always hurts her. 

But she can’t remember that just now. 

Just now, she’s a big, gaping hole and he’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart. He holds her up. She can’t feel anything and she wants to, wants to feel something, anything. 

She thinks, maybe, she should feel something as Cassidy begs them for just one reason to live. Then again, perhaps spite and the bitter glow of triumph knowing she could stop him taking that last step, but won’t, perhaps that is something. Perhaps that is enough. 

Enough, like Logan’s hands in her hair and his words whispered into the top of her head. 

And her eyes looking up into a dark, black and empty sky. 

***

No matter how bad things get, they always said, it could always get worse. 

They're so wrong it's not even funny. Veronica knows it as the elevator makes its slow trip to Mac’s floor. Her left hand clutches her right elbow, holding herself in, and her right hand hasn’t left Logan. She can’t seem to stop touching him, just reassuring herself that he’s there. The security manager frowns as the lights count down.

It's almost funny. Yeah, a huge, giant laugh a minute riot of giggles, because she spent so long teaching herself to believe that one fact. Tried so hard to etch it into her brain that she had finally started to accept it. 

Things could always get worse. 

Duncan stopped talking to her, but things could always be worse. Lilly died, blood pooling at Veronica's feet like the cries that congealed in her throat, but there was always someone worse off. Her mother, her friends, her school, her whole town turned against her and, no matter what she thought at the time, how awful it seemed then, she learned that there was always worse. 

Like waking up lost and lonely, body aching with unremembered horror, brain furiously trying not to fill empty spaces with all the possibilities, all the twisted, cruel, unthinkable acts that could have passed. 

Rock bottom might have been walking the halls at school, impossibly large when she had to walk them alone, dodging whispered words like _slut_ and _whore_ and _traitor_ and _she deserves whatever she gets_ as if they were bullets. 

But Veronica learned her lessons well and things could always get worse. 

Worse, like suspecting the one person she relied on, the one person who stood by her and helped her more than he would ever know, wasn't part of her blood. Worse like that. Life and lies, they were constants, unchangeable, inextricable from each other. People who breathed lied, it was the only truth she knew. 

Each time something hit her, each time life smacked her upside the head with a new version of reality, Veronica suspected that the holy They had been wrong and it could never get worse, that there was no further to fall. 

Further, like finding out Logan, who'd made a year of her life hell and then turned about and become one of the people she'd trusted, had brought the drugs that led to her rape. 

Falling deeper, like discovering the truth to that night, the carelessness of everyone who'd stood by and let it happen.

Surely, she'd thought at the time, the worst it could be was scraping the insides of an abandoned fridge, feeling the flames lick heat into the metal as she heard the crashes that might mean her father's death. 

There was nothing worse than that. 

At least, she'd thought so. 

It couldn't get worse. Not even dating a boy who seemed hell bent on destroying himself or the world and it didn't seem matter which. Not even crying as she told him to leave. Watching her friends careen off a cliff, knowing she should have been with them, thinking that they all died because of her, that was pretty low. 

But things could always get worse. 

Like putting two and two together and finding the answer was that, yes, despite the fact she'd spent a year trying to erase the word rape from her brain, it had happened. It hadn't been a fuzzy, but entirely consensual experience like she'd thought, like she'd cried tears of gratitude over, it had been cold, hard, brutal _rape_. 

And it had been the last boy she'd thought could ever, would ever do it. 

Small, seemingly inconsequential Cassidy. The boy Mac had been trying to tell her about for months now, the small tidbits she'd glossed over when Mac had been so worried suddenly came home to roost. 

Things could always get worse, they said it all the time. 

But Veronica knows, she knows now, that staring helplessly into the sky, watching the brilliant flash and burn of her father, her fingers clutching uselessly at the dull tone of her cell as if it could have changed time, she knows that nothing will be worse than that. 

Not even opening the door and seeing Mac shivering in nothing but the shower curtain, her eyes shining with tears and her lips quivering with something so desperately wrong. It’s not worse, but it’s bad enough. 

And Veronica kneels down and reaches out and gives Mac what no one gave her when she needed it. She holds Mac and doesn’t give soft, meaningless platitudes, she rocks her and holds her and through that tells her it will be okay. 

She hopes Mac believes her, because she doesn’t quite believe herself anymore. 

***

The questions take hours and she doesn’t have enough energy to care. She sits in the wide chair they had to bring to the large conference room specially, because she wouldn’t let go of Logan and he wouldn’t let go of her. 

As if they were both afraid that the other would slip away and be lost. 

She hears their voices and she hears her own, it’s like a big charade, cold, clinical words that could never tell the truth of it. Just like the trial. She remembers sitting there, telling a room full of blank faced jurors and glaring Aaron fans, that she’d been beaten and locked in the fridge, which Aaron set on fire while he tried to kill her father. And the words hadn’t done justice to the feeling of it, the fear and the choking and nightmares that followed. 

And Veronica had spent the rest of the afternoon staring at the wooden floor, picturing the crowds outside with their ‘I love you, Aaron’, ‘Marry ME, Aaron’ placards and wondering how many of them said ‘I love you, Aaron, kill ME, Aaron’ and ‘beat ME with a belt, Aaron’. She'd briefly considered making one and wondered if any of the women out there would hold it up when it read 'defile and bludgeon MY daughter, Aaron, she's young enough'.

She doesn’t think anyone would have held an ‘I love you, Cassidy’ placard at a trial, if there’d been one. 

Her whole body shivers and she can’t remember speaking for a full ten minutes. She wants out of the room, wants away from the stupid, repetitive questions, the sly looks from people who just don’t know. She just wants to sink down and forget the night ever happened, forget she’s supposed to exist. 

“Are we done?”

It’s Logan that ends it, as if he can feel it in her. 

“There’s just a few more questions…” The voice drones on. 

“We have your card.” Logan won’t let them finish. “We’ll call you tomorrow.”

Veronica melts into him and lets him lead her away. Her brain doesn’t even try to function. 

***

She shivers in the car and Logan turns the heating up full. 

Neither of them even suggest staying at the hotel. 

***

Veronica stops in the doorway and her throat closes up. Her eyes scream in protest as they try and escape everything that reminds her of her father. It’s no use. Everything in their apartment reminds her of him. 

She can even smell him. 

Her hand closes on Logan’s and his warmth seeps into her.

“C’mon.” 

He doesn’t even ask her, like everything else since it happened, he’s three steps ahead of what she needs. She’s pliant, slow and heavy and numb as he leads her to the couch and pulls her down. 

It’s exactly what she needs, arms holding her, letting her cry, letting her sob. Letting her fingers clutch desperately at his shirt as she screams into his shoulder. All’s she can feel is warm hands on her back, rubbing circles, and his voice humming down from the chin that sits on the top of her head. 

She’s so tired. 

She’s so empty. 

After all that has happened, the remaining 09ers must be so proud. 

She’s so broken. 

***


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the small things that get lost when you try to forget the large ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** PG-13, nothing more than what was on the show. Maybe a few naughty words, here and there, but that's just Logan talking.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things. And you can blame *him* for the angst.  
>  **Wordcount:** 3,527.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** It's the small things that get lost when you try to forget the large ones.  
>  **Warnings:** None, really, maybe some naughty words and SPOILERS for 2.22.

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part two**  
*~*~*~*

"He killed my FATHER!"

It's in that one word, in the cracked tearing of her voice, that Logan knows just how bad it is this time. And she continues to list Beaver's sins, the atrocities, but Logan can't spare him more than a glance as he watches her. 

His steps are gentle as he walks towards her, but his brain reels. 

Back to the party downstairs, the hurried, business like way she'd rushed through and demanded to know if he'd seen Beaver. Something had told him then, business like Veronica always meant trouble, always. 

But he hadn't followed her, he'd wanted to, but he hadn't. His feet were caught in words he couldn't remember saying, vines of drunkenness twisting over his ankles and keeping him rooted to the spot. 

He couldn't stop causing her pain. The look in her eyes that morning as she extended the figurative olive branch and made him hope again, that damn look she got when Kendall spoke up and he hadn't been able to deny it, because he couldn't remember what he'd said to her in the first place. 

So he'd left her alone until the message on his phone. He might have been stubborn enough to miss the first clue, but he wasn't completely stupid. 

And now he knows, that in the time he'd walked around the party, suddenly bored with the people around him, suddenly uninterested in the blank, vapid stares of everyone, the time he'd taken to stroll back to his suite. 

In that time, Beaver had pointed a gun at her. Made her cry. Killed her father. Keith. Hurt her beyond anything he could have done himself. 

And maybe, if he'd swallowed his pride, Logan might have been able to stop that.

"Give me the gun, Veronica."

He can't let her do it, because he knows she wants to and, given the way she can't even focus, he knows there's nothing to stop her. But he also knows what will happen, because Veronica, for all her witch hunts and ragged, bloody fights to find truth and bring justice, she is not a killer. 

And the thought, even the possibility of having taken human life begins to eat at you, from the inside out. A small little worm of bitterness and doubt that burrows into your stomach lining. 

Veronica won't survive that. She won't. He knows it. She wouldn't even make it to a trial. The only thing that helped him through that was her, even if he never told her, and he doesn't know if he's enough to do the same for her. 

So he takes the gun and she clings to him instead. Like he can save her. That scares him. Because he's nothing if not dangerous and damaging and his veins course with Echolls blood and enough mangled genes of violence and lies and hurt. 

But she is soft and she is Veronica and there is nothing else to do. 

"My name is Cassidy!"

Logan tries to stop him, but even he has to admit he doesn't try very hard. There's something so far past wrong in the way that Beaver stands on the ledge, begging for an excuse to live, just one reason. 

And as they watch the boy jump, Logan feels something tighten inside and it's like a last single fuck you to someone who caused so much pain. 

If he has his way, he's going to make sure the headstone reads: RIP Cassidy Beaver _Beaver_ _**Beaver**_ _**Beaver**_ _**BEAVER**_ Cassablancas. 

He'll put it on his list of things to do. 

But now, there's Veronica in his arms and he can't think past anything further than the look in her eyes and the way her hands hold on to him like he can offer her something other than pain. 

***

"It's okay." He whispers the words into the top of her head. His fingers brush through her hair, as if detangling imaginary knots there will untangle the ones inside her. "It's okay."

She clings to him and they both know he's lying. But they both know they need the words. 

"Veronica."

Her name, he says it like a prayer, like it's the word that makes everything and anything better. And it does. For him. He can only make one guess at the words that will magic all of this away from her and it isn't Logan. But, he figures, _Keith_ and _daddy_ and _father_ will only break her more. 

He can't give her that, he can only offer himself, but she takes it. 

There are police swarming downstairs, herding confused huddles of partly drunk teenagers into quarantine, scraping the remains of a monster from the hood of a beamer, radioing back and forth about 'the disturbance' and 'the probable suicide' and 'the crash'. There are police swarming upstairs, sweeping fine tooth combs over the gravel they left behind. 

The story isn't up there or down on the street either, it's with them, it's with Veronica, but the police either don't get it or they don't care. 

"Hey." He runs a hand down the side of her face, through the sheen of tears drying there. "What...?"

The question sticks in his throat as the elevator makes it way to Cassidy's floor. Her eyes blink at him, far away and distant. 

"What about your dad?"

Her face crumples again and he feels like a heel, like he could punch himself into a bloody mess, but he saves that for later, because she's in his arms again and he can barely make out the words muffled into his shoulder. 

Plane. Cassidy. Cell. 

The bell rings and he feels the loss of Veronica like ripping down the side of him, it's the first time since he caught her that she's let him go. And for a split second, barely even countable, Logan has what he considers one of the blondest moments of his life. 

He wonders what's so urgent about finding Mac. 

He never really knew Mac, aside from being that girl Veronica hung out with, cute and bright. He remembers calling her Mini-V once and he remembers that they both glared at him. Then Mac had started rambling on about Q and Bond and business structures and he'd tuned right out so he could watch Veronica's face as she smiled. 

Then he remembers Veronica's words, strangled, 'He raped me!' 

It hits him, when they find her, digging herself back into the wall, making herself small. Naked and trembling and looking so lost. When he watches Veronica fall to her knees and begin to cry again. 

Logan turns to the Head of Security, the only available support they were given in the mass hysteria, and he blinks. 

"What the fuck's wrong with you, man?" He pushes the guy back out of the room, none too gently. "Didn't you get past page three in the hotel policy and procedures manual? Get some fucking clothes up here!"

He wishes he hadn't tuned Mac out that day, that he'd listened as she'd gone on, that he'd taken the time to know her. Anyone Veronica had a vested interest in was sure to be worth knowing. 

It's just him, Veronica and Mac. Waiting for the deluge. He knows that soon enough there'll be police and questions and most likely some off duty, on call, minimum wage, late night counselor sent to guide them through this. 

Some haggard, overworked and underpaid automaton who's practiced in convincing strung out junkies that the hit they score for five dollars in the car park at Seven-Eleven is probably not pure grade, because they've given up trying to get them to quit altogether. Someone used to pleading with Rosie fucking Housemaid with the black eye and split lip that it's just fine to press charges against Mr. Rich Pay Check Payer, but knowing deep down that Rosie fucking Housemaid knows exactly which side the bread is buttered on and will keep saying she tripped. 

Someone who won't be prepared for this. But geez, how the in the fuck can anyone be prepared for this?

He looks at Veronica, crouching down and crying as she hugs Mac, as they rock back and forth and it hits him in the gut again. Makes him breathless. Veronica is prepared, she's been preparing for years. 

She'd told him last summer, after the heady emotions had simmered down some, the details of it. And his fist had clenched behind his back as she described passing out, then waking up alone and realizing what must have happened, the walk to the station and how hard it had been to face Lamb. 

And how the bastard had treated her. 

Logan watches her now and knows she's giving to Mac what no one had given her and it's healing them both. 

He wants to find the mini bar, not get the little bottles that would no doubt make this a whole lot easier, but to find the little paring knife that slices the lemons and limes and slide it up his wrist. 

Just bleed his own blood out of his veins, because he can't stand it anymore. 

Not for the first time, he hates Aaron and he hates Lilly for everything they've left behind. 

If only Aaron had been able to keep his hands off his son's girlfriend. If only Lilly had been able to resist the double thrill of doing the man who was not only her boyfriend's dad, but a Hollywood actor. If only his father hadn't been a pervert who video taped sex with underage girls. If only Lilly hadn't been a bitch that week and had been with Logan instead, or even just given the damn tapes back. 

If only Duncan had skipped soccer and been there. If only Logan had the guts to confront her at the carwash so that they would have been together. If only his father wasn't an abusive, violent asshole that thought hitting young girls was okay. 

If only Logan hadn't turned his back on Veronica when she stood beside her father. If only he hadn't lead the herd, encouraged the laughter and gossip and bitterness. 

Maybe, if any of that had happened, then Veronica might have had someone next to her, holding her when she needed it. Then again, she wouldn't have needed it at all. And maybe Mac wouldn't have met Beaver. 

Sometimes he plays that game, if only, too much. If only... then Veronica wouldn't be as fucked up as she is, then he wouldn't be drinking too much, then he wouldn't be the bastard he tries so hard to be, he wouldn't have to. 

He wants to change his last name, take away the taint of Echolls from his life, but he'll never be able to take the legacy from his skin. The invisible belt shapes that eventually fade and meld back in. They never disappear, just blend into the thickness of his skin, make it harder. His father's violence is etched there, boiling and simmering underneath, pocked in places above. 

Sometimes he plays the game too much and it becomes wistful and indulgent. If Aaron never killed Lilly, would it still be raining? If Aaron never killed her, would his turkey club be ten minutes late?

But now is not flippant. 

Now is hard and painful to watch, the slow rebuilding as the faceless man comes back with towels and a robe and bottles of water and various toiletries that Veronica takes out of his hand with a quick nod. 

"Don't...?" Logan feels out of place and awkward. "Don't we need to keep...?"

But Veronica shakes her head slightly, a sad look in her eye as she runs her hand down his arm. 

"They don't need proof. He's dead."

And he continues to stand there and watch as Veronica leads Mac into the bathroom. Before, when it was just the two of them, she'd clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her together. He knows what's holding her up now. 

Mac needs her. 

Logan has the sudden urge to call after them, 'I need you!', but he doesn't, because it's really not the time. 

***

It doesn't surprise him that they want to talk to Veronica. What does surprise him, when they guide both her and Logan into the large conference room, is that they allow him to be there. 

But, he's fairly sure, now that Veronica has slumped again, now that Mac's parents pushed their way into the room and him out of it, that they both need the constant reassurances of touch. 

She's so numb, he knows she won't let go because he's keeping her from floating off or falling down. He's the opposite, teetering on the edge of a blade, ready to jump off and obliterate anything that gets in his way. He won't let go of her, because she's grounding him. 

They're like magnets and he tries to remember basic science or math and figures that two negatives make a positive, so he won't argue the fact of it. 

Eventually, a lackey of some sort brings a large two seater into the room and Logan pulls Veronica down on it, cradling her easily against his side and holding her when they ask their questions. 

When they'd first talked to Veronica, taken her aside and left him standing by a group of officers, he'd heard them talking. The mention of a plane as one of them crackled into the mouth piece attached to his shoulder. 

"Hey." He'd nodded to one of them. "What about a plane?"

"Huh?" He'd seen the way the officer raked his eyes up and down, wondering who the upstart kid in the confusion was, but somebody behind him must have nodded assent, because the officer had just given a frown. "The Mayor's plane, Woody Goodman? Blew up, right in the sky. We've had witnesses calling into the station ever since, right over Neptune."

Oh, god. 

He hadn't needed to ask the time, but he had anyway. Because he was Logan Echolls and it just wasn't fun if he didn't know the exact time the plane everyone knew Keith was on blew up, in full view of Veronica on top of the roof, was only a minute before the message she'd sent to his phone. 

Wasn't fun at all if he couldn't burn himself with the knowledge that he could have stopped it. 

So he sits with Veronica as she blankly answers the questions, questions that would have sent anyone else into hysterical fits of sobbing. Sits and holds her, trying to pull her closer, even though she's already mushed up into his side. Feels her hands digging into his sides, clinging, trying to pull him closer. 

"Miss Mars?" Logan blinks his eyes open at the voice. "Miss Mars? We asked you a question?"

He looks at her, at her face staring forward, the shallow breaths she takes, and he knows she needs out. 

"Are we done?" He asks them. 

"There's just a few more questions..." 

But Logan's already leaning forward, picking the small, ivory rectangle of cardboard off the edge of the table. 

"We have your card." If he doesn't get her out of here, she's going to lose it in a spectacular way. "We'll call you tomorrow."

It almost hurts him how easy it is to pull her up and guide her out the door and to the car. 

Veronica always likes to lead. 

***

There are so many things he wants to say as his fingers grip the wheel. 

Sorry I didn't get there earlier. 

Sorry your dad is dead. 

Sorry I didn't do better. 

Sorry you can't stop looking up into the sky, with the saddest look of despair, as if wishes alone could change it. 

Words are useless, so he runs a hand down her arm and feels her shiver. 

Even with the heater on full, the world is cold. 

***

Veronica stops as she holds the car door open and Logan gently takes her hand from the door and closes it. She gives him a look that he doesn't need to interpret. It's the small things that get lost when you try to forget the large ones. 

She stops again at the edge of the path and his hand at the small of her back guides her forward. She stops in front of the door and he takes the keys out of her pocket, reaching into the front of her jeans without thinking. 

They step inside the door and Logan hisses as he realizes how much of Keith is here, just staring at them, and how Veronica can't even breathe. There's a small whine, timid and questioning, and he looks down and nearly cries. 

Her hand is limp, hanging by her side, but her fingers are moving, pushed forward, nuzzled by Backup. The dog keeps whining as he nudges her, his tongue darting out to lick at her skin. 

Veronica doesn't move and Logan can't tell if she knows Backup is there or not. 

She's ready to fall down. 

"C'mon."

He leads her to the couch and she lets him. He holds her and she lets him. 

***

She sleeps on his lap, spent and wasted and too exhausted to move. 

She'd cried wet circles into his shirt, into his neck, out of herself and into his skin, sliding through osmosis into his blood. Logan can still feel the places her fingers had held too tightly, but he doesn't mind, they're bruises he'll wear with pride. 

He can't fall asleep, he can't stop thinking. 

His right arm curls around and under her back and it's already starting to ache, but there's nothing that will stop him holding her that last inch from exhaustive sleep to back cracking nightmare.

Veronica had clung to him in a way that made him speechless. He can't remember anyone, not Veronica, not Lilly, not even his mother when she felt particularly weak and let her guard down enough to cry over her shamble of a life, not a single soul gripping on to him like that. 

Not caring where or how limbs were placed, just wrapping herself around him. And he sat on the couch, with her face buried into him, with her legs curling around his hip, and whispered the same old words into her ear, her hair, her skin. 

It's okay. Veronica. It's going to be okay. I love you. I'm here. 

He can't remember when she fell asleep, but he thinks it was a gradual process, a slow soft easing of the tightness in her limbs, the ebbing of her desperation. Gradually, her body had relaxed and her breathing had stopped hitching and she'd slid down his chest until she was lying flat over his knees. 

His left hand rests casually on her belly, fingers drawing small, casual circles over the skin that pokes through the top of her jeans and the hem of her shirt. 

He knows, has known for a long time that he loves Veronica, knew it by the bitter aching when she'd been with Duncan and, even then, he'd known how masochistic it was to keep torturing himself by watching them. Knew it by the way he'd never been able to stop watching her, to leave her alone, by the way his own breath caught whenever he saw her. 

He knows he needs her, has known that since he broke down in her arms and she held him without comment, letting him let go in ways he never felt comfortable with anyone else. Knows it in the way he keeps edging closer to her, even when she tries to push him away. He hung around her like a dog begging for scraps and it made him pathetic whenever he'd preen under her attention, but he hadn't been able to stop it. 

But this, this is different. Because it's not a secret that he loves her, that he needs her. It's just a surprise to Logan that she needs him after all he's done. 

And the symmetry of it isn't lost on him. 

His fingers slide over the slightly warm skin of her belly and he thinks about the year before. 

When it was him lying on the couch, cradled in her arms, and she was the strong one. When he'd been bleeding and incoherent and she'd softly, slowly, drawn him back to reality. She'd wiped the blood from his face with gentle swabs of cotton, washed his skin with warm water, caressed each cut with the pads of her fingers. Her breath, blown over his swollen skin, had taken the sting out of it. 

Now, every time his hands circle the small frame of her body, they wipe the cuts and the bruises and the swellings that can't be seen. He imagines antiseptic and water that trickles into awkward creases and cools, but feels good anyway, and soft, pillowy bandages. 

His pain has always been physical, slashed across the canvass of his back or his thighs, broken bones and bloodied lips. Hers has always been emotional, boiling under the surface. 

But they've seen each other and they've held each other. 

And Logan can't sleep.

***


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it's a dream, she doesn't want to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** PG-13, nothing more than what was on the show.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, Keith. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things. Except Logan's man neck thing of lickable shells. I'm claiming that.   
> **Wordcount:** 1,520.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** If it's a dream, she doesn't want to wake up.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Veronica's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part 3.**  
*~*~*~*

_He’s so big. He’s so silly. He always makes her laugh. He’s her whole world. When she falls, she cries to him. When she finally learns to pedal her bicycle without training wheels, she’s going to scream with joy as she runs to him._

_Veronica’s so excited about the puppet show that her arms twitch and she has to squeeze them tight so she can sit still on the blanket. His voice makes the giggles rise in her mouth and her eyes bubble._

_But it’s his face that makes him her daddy._

_He’ll always be there. He’s always going to pick her up and call her silly names and make her laugh by nuzzling his head into her tummy. He’ll always make faces behind her mom’s head when she’s supposed to be eating vegetables. He’ll always tell her which paths to walk on and which roads not to cross._

_He’ll never leave her._

_He’ll never, ever not come back._

_He’ll never, ever, ever in a million trillion years leave his little girl._

_Never. Never ever._

_He’ll never board a plane that never lands._

_He’ll never…_

***

Veronica wakes up, already half out of the bed. Her heart is in her throat and she doesn’t know why. Only one word runs through her head. 

“Dad?”

Then she remembers. 

Logan is standing by the stove, frying the bacon that woke her, cooking up the pancakes that she smelled in her dream. She can’t breathe and she can’t move and she hates to be disappointed by him. 

Because she owes him so much. 

But it’s like she’s lost her father all over again. And just the very thought of it is enough to hurt her. She knows she’s about to cry as Logan steps up to her and she folds into his arms easily. 

As if she’d never left them. 

And his words, his hands, smoothing over her as if he hadn’t stopped. She doesn’t know what else to do. It makes sense to trust Logan now, he knows, he’s been through it. 

She’d held him when he’d cried over Lynn. 

“Is that breakfast I smell?”

And, oh god. Veronica thinks she’s dreaming, just for an instant, but she can’t stop herself turning around when she feels Logan tense. Logan’s arms fall away and she flings herself at her father. 

She can’t get enough. He’s solid in her arms and she cries. Just feeling his hand as it runs up over her hair, in the way she thought she’d never feel again, it’s as if her dreams and her reality became mingled and she doesn’t know what’s what anymore. 

But if it’s a dream, she doesn’t want to wake up. 

She’s rambling, she can’t stop herself, but her brain just exploded and she doesn’t particularly care what’s coming out of her mouth. Something about how much she loves him. As long as she can keep his arms around her, keep herself buried in his chest, keep his voice sounding in her ears.

He’ll never leave her. 

“I was a little surprised to find Logan on the couch…” He laughs, his nervous laugh, she wants to bottle it. “… but it’s better than finding him elsewhere, right?”

She hears the door latch closed and turns to see Logan gone. 

“Wait.” It hurts, physically hurts to put her hand up on Keith’s chest and push him away. “Don’t move.”

“I’m not going anywhere…”

But she’s already running to the door. 

“Logan!” He’s half way to the entrance when she calls his name. He stops instantly. “Don’t go, please.”

He doesn’t turn around and she feels herself shaking. 

“I need you here, please.”

She thinks, maybe, that his hand reaching up to wipe at his face before he turns around isn’t telling at all. At least, she won’t ever bring it up again. 

***

“It was Cassidy.” She says it around a mouthful of pancake. “He was the third boy on the tape.”

It’s like she hasn’t eaten for weeks, her stomach rolls and clenches around each mouthful and she can’t stop eating. Damn, but if she knew Logan could do this, she would have kept him around longer. 

They’ve pulled the chair out of her room and set it up at the end of the little table that makes their kitchen. Surprisingly, it doesn’t feel crowded. It feels right. Even if no one is eating but her, Logan’s eyes and Keith’s eyes watch her and she doesn’t care. She needs them. 

She could stay like this all day and wishes she could just close the blinds and lock the door, force the whole world to wait for her. Just once. Make them wait until she’s had enough basking in the glow of her father, of Logan, of the two of them at pretending to get along just for her. 

“They were going to expose Woody, but Cassidy didn’t want to, so he got the explosives from Curly…” 

She’s speaking too fast, eating too fast, she’s going to get gas and she doesn’t care, the details are coming too fast to stop. And even if she does manage to stop, she won’t be able to start again, so she continues to ramble, to get it all over in a rush. 

“And he was the one who…”

But she does stop, she has her limits. 

“Who what?” Keith never misses a thing. “Honey?”

His warm hand on hers pushes her fork down to her plate. She swallows and doesn’t look up. 

“Nothing.” Her voice is flat now. “It’s just… everything. It’s all too much.”

“Veronica?” 

She knows that tone of voice, knows that Keith Mars has caught the scent of something and he won’t let go. A hand squeezes her knee under the table. 

“So what are they going to do about Woody?” Logan asks seriously. “Now that they know what he did?”

“Huh?” 

Logan winks at her and she can hear the words in her head. Target: acquired. Distraction: imminent. 

“I mean, were Beaver and Lucky and those other guys the last of them?” Logan nods. “Or are they gonna check out the rest of his Little League candy store? ‘Cause he didn’t seem like he’d quit when I was in his office.”

The way Logan waggles his eyebrows would almost be comical. 

If it didn’t make Veronica want to throw up. 

“I can’t…” She backs her chair up and hears it skid on the floor. “I have to…”

And she’s gone again, fleeing to her room, to her bathroom. 

To hot water. 

*** 

There’s a soft knock on her door and she twists the robe tighter around her. 

“I’m alright, Dad.” Just saying the word makes things a little better. “I swear.”

“It’s me.”

Her eyes widen. 

“Logan?” And she cracks the door open to see him standing there, shyly, his hands in his pockets. “What are you…?”

What she wants to ask is how he convinced her father to let him this close to her bedroom door just after she’s had a shower. What he said that made Keith change his mind so completely. 

“Are you okay?”

The words are soft, but his eyes burn as they scan her. 

“Yeah.” She nods, knowing her voice isn’t as sure as it should be. “I just, with the… It’s just…”

“Too much. I know.” He finishes and she has to nod. “I take it Daddy Mars still doesn’t know?”

Her nod turns to a shake and Logan frowns slightly.

“He should.”

She can feel it slide right out of her eyes, the plea, the desperate, silent scream. And it’s harsh and unfair, she knows, because she sees his face fall and knows that he’ll give her anything right now. 

His nervousness is almost palpable. 

“Soon.” She promises him, instead, and doesn’t know whether she wants to be lying or not. 

***

“Yeah.” They hear Keith’s voice as they walk down the hall. Logan’s hand runs through the wet strands of her hair, just behind her neck. “He’s here, hang on…”

As Keith turns, Veronica expects Logan’s hand to fall away, for him to back off, but he doesn’t. She likes it. 

“Logan.” Keith looks serious. “It’s Cliff, he’s been looking for you, he has news.”

“News?” Logan sounds confused. “He’s not my lawyer anymore.”

But he takes the phone out of Keith’s hand. 

“What’s up?” She slides into Keith’s arms easily. “What’s going on?”

But Keith only shakes his head. 

“Oh.” Logan’s voice comes from across the room. “When?”

He sounds so cold, so clinical. Veronica knows something is wrong. 

“Really? How?” There’s a pause. “Do they know who?”

She makes it to him in three steps and he opens his arms for her without pause. 

“Me? I have witnesses.” A small chuckle. “They don’t seriously think…? No, I have about a thousand cops who could verify…”

He hangs up the phone and cradles her closer. His face is blank and his eyes are dry, but she can feel how tense he is and how much he’s holding everything in. 

“My dad’s dead. Shot through the head.”

Veronica is sure she should be surprised. 

She isn't.

***


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't his life twelve hours ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** PG-13, nothing more than what was on the show.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, Keith. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things. Except Logan's man neck thing of lickable shells. I'm claiming that.   
> **Wordcount:** 4,045.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** Logan dreams of Lilly and wakes to Veronica.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Logan's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part four**  
*~*~*~*

_She floats by him, just floats in mid air, but her body ripples. He can almost believe she's swimming, her arms stretching out, pointing her direction and trusting the rest of herself to follow. Her whole body undulates as she drifts by, all the way down to her hips and the green, sparkly scales that crust into a tail._

_"Mom?"_

_He reaches out to her and she smiles back, but she doesn't stop for him. No reason for her to change her habits now, even in dreams._

_"Aw, what's the matter?"_

_He closes his eyes as he turns around, because he knows what he's going to see. Lilly, with her face sliding off her skull._

_"Really?" She chides him. "You think I'd be that tacky? Honest. The whole murder thing was, like, so last year."_

_So he opens his eyes and there she sits, a grin plastered all over her face and he wants to believe it's really her sitting next to him on the couch. But, honestly, he's had a lot of practice differentiating between wishful thinking and reality._

_"You need to loosen up." She pouts. "God, you were so much more fun before your dad bashed my head in."_

_"Lilly?" He finally asks her. "What?"_

_"Seriously? Logan, it's over." She rolls her eyes and it hurts him. "I mean it, you've got to stop bringing me back. You and Veronica. Tell Duncan, too, if you ever see him again. Case solved. Let me go. I mean, how am I supposed to be awesome in this reality if I keep getting drawn back to yours?"_

_There's a high pitched sound he thought he'd never hear again. Lilly giggling._

_"There's this one guy here, kinda cute. I'm trying to make my moves. So, you know, pass the word on. This is the last visit, okay?"_

_"We miss you." He says the words without bothering to pause, he knows they're true even if he hasn't spoken to Veronica. "Lilly, we..."_

_"I know that!" She places her hand on his and it feels like a draft of cold, night air. "Who wouldn't? Although, I was beginning to wonder, you never brought me back. I was kinda miffed. But now, look, it's really sweet."_

_She's as frustrating and as self contradicting as she ever was in real life. Logan smiles sadly as his fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and touch her._

_"Seriously, last time." She sighs and insists again, then her face falls. "Logan, what are you doing?"_

_"Me?" He shakes his head. "You're the one in my dream."_

_"I mean with Veronica."_

_He sees it then, Veronica's body lying on their knees. Jeans and torn sleeves and exhaustion oozing from every pore. But her face is smooth and her hair is long. Lilly reaches over and brushes a ghostly finger over cheeks that haven't been that rosy and a face that hasn't been that peaceful for years._

_"That's not her, not anymore." Logan pauses, confused. "What are you doing?"_

_"It's not my dream." Lilly shrugs. "Besides, I asked first."_

_"I think..." His throat closes up and it's harder than it has a right to be. "I think I love her."_

_"Well, duh, obviously." Lilly rolls her eyes again. "I knew that. Hell, even Blind Freddy's dog knows it."_

_They sit side by side and watch as Veronica's body flickers from jeans to a white dress and black choker, to a black dress and tears, to short hair and a hard expression. Then back._

_Lilly laughs again, but it's softer, a sadder kind of sound._

_"God, you're always a white knight, you know it?"_

_He looks at his hands._

_"Not for you, I wasn't."_

_"Get over yourself, Emo-Boy." She leans over and kisses his lips. It's just chaste enough to ache. "Things are different now, don't you get it?"_

_Logan blinks and Lilly nudges him with a sad smile._

_"It's not about me anymore."_

_Then she's gone._

***

He opens his eyes to find Veronica still sleeping across his lap and he chokes back the small, bitter laugh that rises. Her cheek is warm when he touches it. 

"This was never about you, Lilly."

Veronica weighs almost nothing as he slips his arms under her shoulders and knees and picks her up. She mumbles something into his neck as her face settles into his shoulder and her breath is warm and wet as it ghosts over his skin. 

She tumbles into her bed and her mumbles grow higher in pitch until he runs his hand over her forehead and whispers words. His eyes drink in the way her forehead relaxes and he can't help but grin when her face angles further into his hand.

He's struck by the sudden and total desire to stay that way. 

All of a sudden, it's not about confrontation and need and hot, pulsing anger, or overwhelming passion, the never ending drama that sparks up between them. It's not about the four people in the room, the way it sometimes was with them, the ever present whispers of Lilly and Duncan. 

It's not about the fact that she makes him feel good when everything else in his life makes him feel like utter crap. Or the fact that he once tried so hard to break her that he has to try harder to fix it. 

It's nothing. 

It just is. 

He stumbles back to the couch and his last waking thought sounds too much like a prayer that he won't screw this up like he has everything else. 

***

Logan wakes early. 

He thinks it might be the first rays of sun washing in through the window, or the dog's head perched inches from his face, puffing hot, steamy breath into his eyes. But it's more likely the driving, buzzing need to do anything and everything he can. 

And do it right. 

He remembers one thing from his mother's passing. People bring food. Even though they had maids and cooks and the funeral was catered, people still brought food. As if he was going to forget to eat just because someone else stopped breathing.

At the time, he felt he was going to shove the next, high priced, elitist stamped platter someone handed him right back in their faces, but he gets it now. 

Backup whines.

"Soon, boy." It should worry him how easy it comes to him, finding the pans and the food in the fridge and the plates in the cupboard as he talks easily to the dog at his heels. "We'll go for a walk, soon."

This wasn't his life twelve hours ago. 

***

"Dad?"

Oh, god, the hope in her voice is enough for him to realize his mistake as she runs into the kitchen. He sees the realization hit her, knows the second her heart breaks again. 

He doesn't ever want to see her bite her lip like that again. 

"I'm sorry." Logan holds her again, because there's nothing else to do, and he doesn't qualify for what, but he says the words as he holds her head to his chest. "I'm so sorry."

Her whole skull fits right into the palm of his hand and it shouldn't be like that, shouldn't feel so fragile under his touch. 

"Is that breakfast I smell?"

Logan can't believe his ears or his eyes. Maybe he's still dreaming. Keith stands there, staring blankly at the two of them, hands absently tying a robe around his waist. Veronica spins violently in his arms and he has no choice but to let her go. 

She launches herself away from him and Logan feels his chest tighten. He's happy, so happy for her, because this is what she wants and this is what she needs. 

Keith is alive and Veronica is whole again. 

And Logan has to walk out of the room, his teeth biting hard on the inside of his cheek, because it's not a moment for him to share. 

He should have known. 

"Logan!" He thinks, maybe, just for a second, he's imagining her voice calling to him. "Don't go, please."

But he can't imagine the way she pleads like that, because his brain would never be that giving. Not to himself. His eyes linger on the cement as he breathes. Tries to fight. 

Last night they were both so screwed up, so hopelessly damaged beyond repair, that it seemed natural to hold her close and he knows he meant it, but everything that happened last night means something else now. 

He wants to turn around, but he doesn't want to hurt her if she ever has a chance to heal without him. 

"I need you here." Logan has to swallow deep when she says the words. "Please."

He won't make her beg twice.

***

It's awkward, heavy and awkward, and the only one who doesn't seem to notice is Veronica. Logan sees the looks that Keith gives him, the glances that let him know he's barely tolerated and only that because Veronica wants it. 

He tries to swallow some juice, but it coats his throat and makes his tongue sticky. 

Keith doesn't even bother pretending. Only Veronica talks, words pouring out of her mouth as she relays the evenings events, the sentences coming out frantic, but still making sense. How she manages to be so calm and coherent about it all, he'll never know. 

He doesn't think Keith will, either, if the murderous glints in the man's eyes are anything to go by. 

"And he was the one who..."

Both Logan and Keith are watching her close enough to see the instant she shuts down. Logan knows why and he sees Keith frown. It confuses him, he knows how close Veronica and her father are, knows they share everything. The important things, anyway. 

Everything but this last little wall between them. He can almost understand why Veronica wouldn't want him to know, if only to save Keith unnecessary pain and frustration and guilt, but Logan also knows that if there's any one person who could help her through the lingering pain of it, it would be Keith. 

"Who what?" Of course Keith picks up on it. "Honey?"

Logan can see the panic skitter across her eyes. 

"Nothing." Her voice is the complete opposite of panic, worn down and emotionless. "It's just... everything. It's all too much."

If he didn't know the truth, Logan would believe her. 

"Veronica?"

But, apparently, Keith knows her better. 

Logan can't stand the way her body tightens next to him, so he lets his hand drift under the table, reassures her softly before speaking up. 

"So what are they going to do about Woody?" It's a valid question. Something he's been wondering about. "Now that they know what he did?"

"Huh?" 

It's reluctant, the way Keith turns from his daughter to look at him. 

"I mean, were Beaver and Lucky and those other guys the last of them?"

He doubts it, he can still feel the hand that lingered on his arm. Just for a second. And he won't call Beaver Cassidy. Just won't do it. Beaver lost that right a long time ago. 

"Or are they gonna check out the rest of his Little League candy store? 'Cause he didn't seem like he'd quit when I was in his office."

It's an awful thought, repulsive. Enough to make Logan squirm on the inside. So many unwanted ideas that crawl into his head. He also can't stop himself _again_ from thinking he should have acted on his gut feeling and said or done something back then. Not that it would have helped Beaver or the guys on the bus.

But it might have helped some other poor kid. Maybe. 

Logan has to joke to cover. Humor is thicker than body armor. 

"I can't..." Veronica turns pale as she tries to stand. "I have to..."

His fingernails dig into his palm and he curses himself. He'd much rather feel his own discomfort than hers. 

He and Keith watch Veronica run down the hall and slam her door closed. 

"What's going on, Logan?"

One thing he knows is that a Mars will know you're lying, no matter how well you try to cover it up. It's something in the eyes, or the face, or the twitch at the corner of the eye, or the blush that spreads over cheeks and up the neck. 

"It's complicated." It's not an answer, but it's not a lie. 

Keith is quiet as he stands. And Logan has to consciously stop his body trembling. He knows quiet. He knows deathly still. He knows calm before the storm. He hates the absence of sound when it spreads the air and releases tension, racketing it up until salt oozes over his tongue. 

"Did...?"

A dish slams into the sink and Logan winces. 

"Did Woody...?"

And that's as far as Keith gets. 

"No!" That thought alone makes Logan wince. "No."

He stops himself saying 'nothing like that'. 

***

They clear the bench in silence, moving around each other, acutely aware of the presence of themselves and the white elephant that dances between them. 

“It scares me.” Keith says to the bench. “What she won’t say.”

Logan has to take a second to process the words, to stop himself answering ‘it should’. Something has changed, something vital, and he’s at a loss for words. Keith never admits weakness, not to him. 

“She’s just processing.” 

Logan, of all things, has lost the power to snark at will. 

“Right.” Keith nods as he dries a plate and puts it back in the cupboard. “Processing what?”

“Cassidy Cassablancas was the third kid? That he blew up the bus? The plane? That she thought you were dead? Pick one.” He tosses his dishtowel on the sink. “Hell, pick all of them if one’s not enough.”

There’s a moment of silence. 

“Why are you here, Logan?”

He breathes in. 

“Someone had to bring her home, stay with…”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He meets Keith’s eyes and, for the first time he can remember, doesn’t flinch. 

“I know what you meant.” He thinks back to his dream, back to the moment on the roof when he first saw Beaver with the gun, and before that. Every time he’s ever looked at Veronica. “I need to be here.”

Keith swallows whatever comment he was about to make and Logan watches the wheels turning behind his eyes. The tension drags out between them. He knows he’s just about the last person Keith wants here, the last person he wants Veronica to be with, but Logan’s not going to back down unless she tells him to. 

He knows this man, has known him for years. 

Before the name Echolls became unspeakable in the Mars household, when they were all still young enough to believe that the number four could never be changed, he used to envy Veronica with a passion. 

His own father wasn’t worth thinking about and the only other substitute he’d known had been Jake Kane, friendly, but distant. It was the same with all his friends’ families. Large houses, large gardens, large rooms and larger allowances, but small memories and smaller emotions. That was normal, that was all he’d ever known.

Until Lilly had dragged him to the Mars abode. Small house, small belongings, small everything, but large people, larger than life, and walls that burst with laughter and feeling. 

He’d made off hand comments about the domesticity of it that made Veronica blush, Duncan punch his shoulder and Lilly glare, but he’d secretly loved the days there. 

And every time Keith had laughed too loud, reaching an arm around his shoulders, he’d hated the automatic flinch, hated the way he had to steel himself against it. Until Keith had noticed one day, never said anything, but never repeated the movement. 

And he’d hated the way Veronica never noticed, never even thought to question it. Duncan had known and it hadn’t taken Lilly long to figure it out, either.

“Are you two, you know, together?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest answer he’s given so far. 

“She thinks she’s so strong.” 

Keith looks out past the window, but Logan hears the words underneath.

“I’m not going to hurt her, Sir, I’m not...”

“But you did.” And the venom hisses through, louder than anything Keith has ever said to him, even given the time he’d been pressed against the wall not five feet from where he stands now. “I haven’t forgotten.”

The apology sticks in his throat. 

“Last summer…” He swallows thickly. “I was all messed up.”

“I know that. I get it, I do. Before, though.” Keith shakes his head. “You think I don’t remember? Logan? You think I wasn’t here when she came home from school crying all those times? That I don’t know the kinds of things you said and did?”

Logan has no answer to that. 

“You were supposed to be her friend, you and Duncan.” Keith draws a breath and it sucks all the oxygen out of the room. “Veronica might have forgiven you, Logan, but don’t think I have.”

“Let me get this straight.” Logan can’t help himself, not one bit, apparently the snark isn’t gone, it was just asleep. “You gave this speech to Duncan, right? When they started dating again?”

“I didn’t need to.” Keith looks away first. “He doesn’t hurt her like you do.”

How small and petty does it make him, Logan wonders, if that sentence excites him? Gives him a little thrill of triumph. He’d known there was something missing earlier that year, but he’d chalked it up to his own hope and jealousy than reality. 

The confirmation also makes him a little sad for Veronica, because he knows what it’s like to chase memories and have them blow up in his face. 

They both hear the water stop running through the pipes.

Logan looks up to the wall, eyeing the paint and wondering why he'd never noticed it before. Something so simple. The intimacy of an apartment so small that you know when and where everyone is. 

"I should..." 

Keith gestures to the hall. 

“Wait.” 

He moves to still the man, knowing he's risking life and limbs placing himself in front of the hall entrance, but he doubts Veronica wants Keith asking any hard questions right now. And Keith seems in the mood for heart to hearts. 

"Seriously." Logan keeps his voice soft, but he doesn't back down. "Let me go."

It’s a long moment before Keith nods, a little sadly, and steps back. 

“I don’t want to hurt her.” Logan whispers as he moves past. “I don’t want to be like him.”

He wonders if Keith knows which him he’s talking about. 

***

His ear is pressed to the door and he can’t hear anything, so he knocks. His knuckle bends and he imagines that he can feel each grain of wood as it raps against his skin. 

“I’m alright, Dad.” The voice comes quick, rushed out to stop someone barging in, he supposes. “I swear.”

That’s twice in one morning he’s been mistaken for her father. It’s not the worst comparison people have ever made and it amuses him for some reason. 

“It’s me.”

The door opens suddenly and he has to stop his eyes from trailing down over her heat flushed face and neck, to follow the line of the robe she’s got wrapped around her. The last day and night have been – to steal a word - epic, sure, but he’s still male. 

“Logan?” The look she gives him is classic confusion and he’s willing to bet the first thing she wants to know is how he got past Keith. “What are you…?”

“Are you okay?”

Because he might be male, but he’s still a human and the question needs to be asked. She’s been through a lot. 

“Yeah.” She nods, but he doesn’t believe her. “I just, with the… It’s just…”

“Too much.” He fills in, so she doesn’t have to. How she still has words, let alone complete sentences, is beyond him. “I take it Daddy Mars still doesn’t know?”

He knows, even before the words are out and she shakes her head, what the answer is. 

“He should.” 

It’s the new Logan, he thinks, supportive and patient and not trying to do everything himself. He knows that he’s the least qualified person to help her with something like that, last night showed him that quite efficiently. 

“Soon.”

Her eyes plead with him to believe her and he really wants to. 

***

He waits just outside her door when she finishes dressing, not really wanting to go back to the living area and face Keith alone, not wanting his kneecaps, or worse, to be shot off if he waits inside her room. He’s not sure if Veronica will mind, but he knows Keith will. 

The telephone rings. 

When she opens the door again, it’s almost worse than when she had the robe, her shirt clings to her neck, showing the pink skin under the tendrils of damp hair. He can’t resist reaching up to touch it, to run his fingernails along the clammy warmth of it. And he likes that she doesn’t pull away. 

“Yeah.” Keith’s voice reaches them. “He’s here, hang on…”

He feels Keith’s eyes more than he sees them, can tell the difference between a warning and pity. 

“Logan.” Keith says his name, unnecessarily he thinks, it’s not as if Keith would be referring to Veronica as ‘he’. “It’s Cliff, he’s been looking for you.”

Cliff? Cliff McCormick?

“News?” And there’s really only one thing he can think of for someone to be trying to reach him at this time. “He’s not my lawyer any more.”

It has to be Trina or Aaron. Of course it does. They have to do something to screw him up just when he wants to start doing things right. Already, he feels Veronica slip away from him. 

“Logan?” The voice comes tinny through the phone and he nods his head before realizing, then grunts a non committal reply. “Sorry to tell you this, but it’s your father.”

Of course it is. 

“He’s dead.”

“Oh.” It’s the only thing he trusts himself to say. “When?”

He hears Cliff’s words, but they don’t cause any kind of reaction. There should be something, he thinks, something. Anything. Grief. Anger. Even joy and relief wouldn’t be unusual right now. Validation. Anything. But there’s nothing. Not really. 

It says more than emotion does. 

“Really? How?”

“Um, it’s not pretty kid.” A pause. “Okay, sure. It’s your therapy bills. He was shot in the head in his hotel room. Watching television. Apparently he was found by one… Kendall Shifflet.”

Kendall?

“Do they know who?” It seems like the sort of thing to ask. 

“Well, no. Police were questioning Kendall, as she seems to have been sleeping with him, but the field is wide open. Which brings me to my favorite pain in the ass client. You.”

He feels Veronica next to him and it’s not even a question as he opens his arms and pulls her in. 

“Me? I have witnesses.” It should be laughable, but the only funny thing about it is that he missed his chance to pull the trigger. “They don’t seriously think…?”

“Your name was mentioned, believe me.” Cliff’s voice is dry. “But apparently you were highly visible last night.”

“No, I have about a thousand cops who could verify…”

“Yeah.” Cliff agrees. “And a dozen confused, hung over friends. You’ll still be questioned, you’re not out of the lime light yet. Your kind of money buys a lot of hit men. But, to be honest, your father had a lot of enemies, so the official police list is fairly long. Might take them a few days to get to ‘E’.”

He doesn’t hear the rest of Cliff’s little speech, something about hiring proper lawyers again, about the kind of work it’ll take to find reliable character witnesses, the sort of drivel Logan doesn’t care about. 

Can’t really focus enough to care about right now. 

“My dad’s dead.” The words come flat. “Shot through the head.”

Veronica lays her head on his chest and he sways a little. 

He wonders if he’s supposed to grieve. 

And how.

***


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human sized hamster ball. He wonders exactly where one would get them made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** PG-13, nothing more than what was on the show.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, Keith. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things. Except Logan's man neck thing of lickable shells. I'm claiming that.   
> **Wordcount:** 4,481..  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** Keith ponders the price of human sized hamster balls.  
>  **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Keith's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part five**  
*~*~*~*

His fingers curl around the wheel and he yawns. It's been a long night, too long, and all he wants to do is sleep. He has the window open and the air is just fresh enough to be biting, but not enough to keep the exhaustion out of his head. 

It's not like he had the radio to keep him company. Crappy, small town Reno hire cars make for crappy, small town Reno hire car radios that crackle in and out during an all night Sinatra marathon. 

And Keith couldn't sing loud enough to stop the tightness in his jaw as his ears picked up the tinny sounds of bad machines, so he'd turned the radio off long ago. Hours ago. 

He should have found a room somewhere, stayed the night, but all he could think about was getting home. Walking into his small apartment, his home, and surrounding himself with good. 

With Veronica. And Backup. And earthy tones. And small, colorful memorabilia that spoke of lives, not of baseball or politics or business. 

Or men with gaps in their teeth and larger gaps in their souls. 

He'd realized too late, as the local Reno sheriff had pulled him off the plane, that he'd left his bag behind. So he'd had to stand on the tarmac and watch Woody being flown away by nameless goons, knowing that at the other end Lamb would hold circus over the media. At least he took comfort in the fact that Lamb would have to deal with the small annoyance of processing and returning his bag. 

The only problem, small but annoying, was that his cell was inside it. He'd tried to call Veronica, he had, but the Quail Lodge had steadfastly refused to allow him to call cell phones. Apparently, once the lawmen had left, he was just a lowly P.I. and not worth the extra cents. So he'd had to make do with leaving a message on the landline answering machine. And one more from the car rental place, which also didn't feel the pressing need to relax the cell block on their phones for him. 

He could only hope she'd gotten the messages, that she wasn't worried, that she hadn't stayed too late at the party. 

Keith should have been home hours ago, if he'd taken the plane, and an hour ago, at least with the car, but for some reason he has no energy to fathom, the streets of Neptune were are. Traffic blossoms out of nowhere, cars choking the streets. At four am in the morning. At least it seems relegated to the tourist end of Neptune, rather than the less flashy residential side. 

As soon as he navigates the bucket of rust into the apartment car park, he sees Logan's SUV and his jaw bristles. 

He's ready for a fight before he ever opens the door. 

The sight of the boy sprawled out on the couch stops Keith in his tracks. Backup is curled up on the floor, as close as he can get. Logan himself, well, Logan lays on his side, his long, gangly limbs pulled in tight. His face is pushed so far into the cushion that Keith seriously doubts he can breathe properly. 

The cushion and the reddened cheek resting on it are suspiciously damp. 

"Didn't we have this chat already?" He whispers, disappointed, when Backup opens his eyes and gives him a half hearted tail wag. "She's not allowed to bring home any more strays."

He sighs just to prove a point and all Backup can do is wag his tail again. 

A quick glance at the machine tells him that not only had Veronica not gotten his messages, she hadn't bothered to check the other fifteen that are waiting. The little light blinks, almost excessively, and he figures it has a right to be excited. The little red LCD display rarely ever gets to such a high number. 

Something has happened, something big, and the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. 

Quickly, quietly, he walks to Veronica's door and listens. There's no sound, no indication that she's even in there, but that doesn't mean anything. Not with her. He gives a soft little knock and there's still no answer, so he gently turns the knob and cracks the door. 

Just enough to poke his head through. 

She's lying in bed and the covers have been pulled up around her shoulders, just like he and Lianne used to when she was little, but she's pushed them down again, also just like when she was little. When they were still new parents, he used to enter her room in the middle of the night just to pull the blankets back up, he'd stopped sometime after Veronica had turned eight. 

He sees she's still fully dressed and knows, somehow, that Logan has taken care of her. That scares him, scares him beyond all realm of thought, because it means something more desperate than big has happened. Something to make her need to be taken care of. 

To be tucked in like a child. To... is that Snaffles? Keith leans in just close enough to confirm that, yes, she is clutching her old childhood teddy close to her face. As if smelling it keeps her from falling back into the litany of childhood fears. 

The bear has a tattered sheriff's uniform and it was once very useful in the fight against monsters under the bed. 

Keith can't stop himself reaching out, like he used to do, and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. His lips barely touch her skin and his hand holds the edges of her hair back. 

It makes her whimper in her sleep and he steps back instantly. 

There'll be time to talk to her tomorrow. 

***

"Dad?"

He opens his eyes and blinks for a second. The sun is still too bright outside his window. How many hours sleep had he gotten? Two, three? Maybe, if he was lucky. He's going to have to have a talk to her about morning voices.

Possibly all day voices, he revises as his eyes squint shut against the too offensive light when he tries to find his robe and pull it around himself. 

When he stumbles into the hallway he finds himself blinking at the sight of Veronica buried deep into Logan's chest, clutching him and letting him kiss the top of her head, brush away her hair, cradle her head. 

It's too intimate a moment for a father to witness. 

"Is that breakfast I smell?"

It's her gasp that reaches him first, a sudden explosion of air, followed almost instantly by her whole body launching at him. For the second time in just a few hours, he's reminded of when she was little. When him just walking through the door was an event worthy of jumping up from her coloring books on the floor and leaping into his arms, careless of gravity and misplaced limbs. 

Unafraid of not being caught. 

"You're alive!" Her hands grip his face and neck tightly and she clings. "Oh, I thought you were dead."

His brain takes a second to catch up with her words, with the tears in her eyes and in her voice. Keith doesn't know exactly what she's saying, but his hands rise and he wipes the hair from her face, just touching the sides of her cheek. 

"I love you so much." She rushes to say. As if he'd ever doubt that. 

"Oh Honey." He hasn't seen her this emotional since Aaron had nearly killed them both, since Lianne left, since Lilly died. "What's wrong? I don't understand."

"Woody's plane." She says as her face struggles to compose itself. "Cassidy Casablancas blew it up."

Then it hits him. 

She didn't get the messages. She thought he was on the plane. She thought he was dead. He can't do anything but pull her in, hold her close, and she folds right into his arms, shaking as she clings to him. 

"I wasn't on the plane." The words are empty and useless, it's obvious that he's alive and not in a million pieces scattered over Neptune, but it's the sound of them they both need. "Lamb didn't want me arriving with Woody getting met with the press, so he had them take me off the plane at the last minute. I rented a car, I drove home."

He's lost the sound of his own voice, all he can hear is the soft whimpering of her cries against his chest. 

"I was a little surprised to find Logan on the couch..." It's what they both need, what they both do, when things get too emotional. They deflect. It's the only way he can pull back and look in her eyes without breaking down himself. "But it's better than finding him elsewhere, right?"

They both turn when they hear the front door close. 

"Wait." Her hand comes up between them and pushes him back a little. "Don't move."

As if he has that many places to be right now. He's reeling with all the possibilities. With the name Cassidy Casablancas blinking inside his head. With the thought of Veronica spending the night grieving. With the knowledge that Logan had been the one to pick up the pieces. 

Knowing that she's going after him now and he can't, really shouldn't, do anything to stop her. He trusts her, he does. But he doesn't trust Logan, he hasn't for a long time. 

Right now, he thinks as he switches the phone to silent, he might just have to wait and see. 

***

It would be funny, he thinks, watching Veronica fuss over the both of them, if it wasn't for the thin thread of desperation he can see just under the surface. The way she has to touch his arm every time she reaches past him to get the plates to set the table. 

The way she has to keep reminding herself that he's there. Logan too. 

It's like a gruesome little tennis match, the way she flits between them. Not wanting to leave either, but not wanting to make it too obvious. He thinks that if she doesn't stop it, she's going to split in two or implode upon herself. 

So he plonks a plate full of food on the table and places his hands on her shoulders, pushing her down into her seat. It gives her something else to focus on, something to do as the words finally come pouring out of her mouth. 

Cassidy Casablancas. Keith couldn't honestly say he could place a face to the name. He knew it and there was the possibility of a boy's face in his mind, but he wasn't sure. 

He was never going to leave Veronica alone again. 

Human sized hamster balls weren't that expensive, not really. He'd tighten his belt. 

Anything to wrap her up so she didn't have to face things like dead friends, murderous lunatic men who have a penchant for teenage girls, violent or otherwise, bus crashes, kidnapping scandals, Irish mobsters, bike gangs, conspiracies, pedophiles, murder, explosions, death. 

The list goes on and on and Keith nearly misses the way she stumbles. 

"And he's the one who..."

But nearly doesn't count, because he doesn't miss it. He sees the way she shuts down instantly. And it makes his blood freeze. He's just watched her chew threw a stack of pancakes talking about Woody Goodman molesting a friend of hers, the same friend killing a bus load of kids, framing her, and watching what she thought was her father explode in the sky. 

That anything could be worse chills him. 

"Who what?" He pushes her fork hand down so she has no choice but to look at him. "Honey?"

Her answer comes too quick. 

"Nothing." And too void of anything resembling emotion. "It's just... everything. It's all too much."

Keith has had years of calm voiced, stone faced, pale and shaken Veronica to even consider believing her words. It's like a little fist wrapping itself around his lungs and squeezing so hard it burns. 

"Veronica?" 

And he knows it's not fair, using that tone of voice on her right now, when she's so obviously fragile, when she's just so relieved to have him sitting there in front of her that she'll give him anything he asks. 

It might not be fair, but he can't keep playing this game. 

"So, what are they going to do about Woody?" And Keith has to blink, physically blink, before he remembers that there's another person in the room. "Now that they know what he did?"

Logan's face swims into focus. 

"Huh?"

"I mean, were Beaver and Lucky and those other guys the last of them?"

Keith closes his eyes and tries to block out Logan's question. It's a logical train of thought, but he can't think about that now. He just can't do it. It'll kill him. 

"I can't..." The sound of Veronica standing up makes him open his eyes. "I have to..."

Keith Mars, decorated local sheriff. He loved his job back then and he almost loves it now. He knows he's good at it, that he flourishes where others wouldn't, that he'd stumble through a mediocre existence in some other trade. 

Keith Mars, they said, you're the nicest police man, you never treat people like they don't matter. It's like you know what they're going through. And he did and he does. That's probably the only thing he didn't like about the job then, the only thing he doesn't like now. He can always imagine how the other person is feeling. 

It helps him find answers that others don't. 

It helps him come to conclusions that others won't. 

It damns him to imagine Cassidy Casablancas and the things the poor boy must have gone through. The gut wrenching fear and shame and misery and confusion and denial. Enough of it, day after day, so much rolling inside him that he felt the only option was to kill. 

He hates it because it damns him to imagine why the mention of Woody sends her reeling, unable to keep up the charade. The word he's looking for is escape. And he gets the feeling that it applies to him. 

And only him. 

"What's going on, Logan?"

He doesn't expect the boy to answer, but he watches for signs of guilt. Or anything else more sinister. He sees only worry and concern. 

"It's complicated."

For a strange, abstract second, Keith gets the sudden idea that Logan's acting ability didn't come from Aaron or Lynn or even Trina, the kind of attention getting, eye stealing flashy numbers that sparkle to cover all the emptiness. No, it's darker somehow, and Logan learned from Lilly, from Duncan, from Veronica. 

But it's not about Logan and he can't spare the parental concern right now. 

"Did...?" How is he supposed to ask that out loud?

The words are hateful and he can't stop the fear of it, the absolute terror of it, from making a dish crash into the sink. It doesn't smash, doesn't break into countless little pieces of china. And Keith is disappointed. 

He ignores the flinch Logan gives. 

"Did Woody...?"

But he doesn't have to continue, because Logan, for once in his life, decides to make things easier.

"No." It's short and sudden and convincing. "No."

Even if Keith feels that there's more to it. 

***

He hates that he's good at what he does, that the ability to see the other side gives him that edge, because he knows he's passed that on to Veronica. He knows that Veronica solves everything she does, with the apparent ease she does, because she's learned to step into other people's shoes and live there. 

And he hates that she sees the worst in the people around her and they make her live it. 

Hates that she doesn't even blink at crime scene photographs anymore, or mentions of illicit affairs or conspiracies to murder. That the natural reaction to a bus load of kids being driven off a cliff is to blame herself. And that the suspicion was valid. 

It's not the life he would have chosen for her, not in the least, but she flourishes anyway. Just like he does. And it's killing him. 

Killing him that she tried so hard, just for him, to deny that part of herself. That he pushed her so hard to be normal that she pushed herself into a relationship she didn't even want, didn't even realize she didn't want.

Keith hates that he knows the security staff at the Neptune Grand, hates that he knows which busboys and maids to bribe to get the details, to hear that something wasn't right, that she wasn't as happy as she should have been with Duncan. 

He hates that he can't stop himself. 

And he hates that she put herself through that. 

"It scares me." He says eventually, because the silence in the room is worse than whatever words could come next. "What she won't say."

Logan must think he's being clever, but Keith has had many more years of experience reading people, seeing what they don't say behind the words they do. People don't often catch on to the fact that half the questions don't even need spoken answers, just the attempt to cover up the responses to them. 

"She's just processing."

Logan knows something. 

"Right." Keith nods, not even bothering to notice what he's doing with his hands as they automatically place dishes away. "Processing what?"

There's a brief flicker of frustration that crosses the boy's face and Keith takes note. He knows something and he wants to tell, but if Keith knows anything about Logan Echolls, it's that he has a fierce loyalty to Veronica. 

"Cassidy Casablancas was the third kid? That he blew up the bus? The plane? That she thought you were dead? Pick one." Bravado is easier than true emotion and Keith is used to that. "Hell, pick all of them if one isn't enough."

Human sized hamster ball. He wonders exactly where one would get them made. 

"Why are you here, Logan?"

“Someone had to bring her home.” A fierce, inexplicable loyalty that Keith both understands and struggles to fathom at the same time. “Stay with…”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Keith knows about Veronica’s innate ability to draw people to her, to leave behind trails of besotted fools ready to do anything she asks. She has half of Neptune wrapped around her little finger. 

He’s seen the Chief of the Fire Brigade bend the law for her, knows Principal Van Clemmons indulged her more often than not, Cliff isn’t far behind Keith in the overprotective father stakes, Leo, Wallace, Duncan. Logan is only one name among many that ask her how high when she says jump. 

Veronica has had very few close female friends since Lianne left, since Lilly died. It hasn’t escaped his attention. 

What he’s asking has very little to do with why Logan would take care of Veronica and everything to do with why Veronica keeps choosing him. Why Veronica, out of everyone, always gets drawn to Logan who keeps hurting her. Over and over again. 

“I know what you meant.” It stuns Keith for a moment, because this isn’t the Logan he knows. “I need to be here.”

The Logan he knows is all bravado and surety, sticking his proverbial fingers up at the world, being so loud and obnoxious that nobody bothers to notice when he’s quiet, the way he always looked down and away from Keith’s eyes, always breathed in and deflated when he was in the room. The way he turned into a scared little boy and called him Mr. Mars, automatically making himself smaller and less noticeable. 

Keith had noticed and it galled him. 

But this is a Logan who looks him the eye, prepared to do battle. 

“Are you two, you know, together?”

He can’t quite bring himself to call it dating. 

“I don’t know.” 

The hope in Logan’s voice, tinged with confusion and doubt, borders on a little puppy that’s been kicked once too often. He made the rule a long time ago that Veronica wasn’t allowed to bring home any more animals she saved from certain destruction, but he knew it didn’t stop her from trying to rescue them. 

She’s always had a weakness for those who couldn’t save themselves, even when they had claws that scratched deep furrows into her skin. 

“She thinks she’s so strong.”

“I’m not going to hurt her, Sir, I’m not…”

He promised Veronica last year that he wouldn’t bring it up, he promised… 

“But you did.” Promised to forgive and forget and Keith hasn’t been able to do either. “I haven’t forgotten.”

He’s been holding it in since Lamb first told him she was dating Logan. Even when he saw them together, over the summer, saw them laughing and joking and being altogether too cute to stomach, Keith couldn’t stop picturing the year that went before. 

“Last summer...” Logan stammers the words out. “I was all messed up.”

As if he would blame the boy for his father’s actions. 

“I know that. I get it, I do. Before, though.” It runs deeper than that. Deeper than fights and pranks that turned into destruction. “You think I don’t remember? Logan? You think I wasn’t here when she came home from school crying all those times? That I don’t know the kinds of things you said and did?”

It’s still fresh in his mind. The nights coaxing Veronica out of her room, watching her wither from the healthy young girl she used to be into something else. The process from innocent youth to worldly young detective hadn’t happened overnight. 

She hadn’t gone to bed one night and woken up with short hair and a spunky attitude the next morning. 

Maybe Veronica could wash the burns away, rinse them from the surface of her skin like shower gel, but Keith couldn’t. He’d been there for the worst of it, he’d seen the devastation. 

And his daughter deserved retribution, even if she wouldn’t demand it for herself. 

“You were supposed to be her friend, you and Duncan.” There, he’d said it, and he couldn’t help hoping that the words stung a little. “Veronica might have forgiven you, Logan, but don’t think I have.”

He sees the mask close over Logan’s face. 

“Let me get this straight, you gave this speech to Duncan, right? When they started dating again?”

He’s stumbled across a sore spot, he can see it, can smell it like a predatory animal readying for the hunt. And it wouldn’t be hard to aim to kill. 

Keith sees Veronica leaning into Logan, sees her holding on to him with both hands. 

“I didn’t need to.” The words surprise even him. “He doesn’t hurt her like you do.”

The minute he says them, Keith knows they’re true. The day Veronica had ‘broken up’ with Duncan and she’d played the excessively depressing music and moped about the apartment, he’d known something was off. He couldn’t understand what or why until the truth had been revealed. 

He knows that she wouldn’t cry like that, that Duncan wouldn’t ever bring that out of her. 

But he was there when Logan did. And he’d felt the rawness of it then. 

The pipes scream their offense as the water stops running. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter who’s in the apartment, or why, what matters is that he needs to check on Veronica. 

He needs to help her again. 

“I should…”

“Wait.”

The sudden obstruction stuns him into silence. That’s the only excuse he can come up with. The only reason that explains why he didn’t just push Logan away and continue on to his daughter. 

“Seriously.” Logan insists. “Let me go.”

Keith is stunned. Let Logan go to check on an emotionally weak Veronica who just stepped out of the shower? Right. That’s not going to happen. He glares down at Logan and sees nothing but concern and someone who stayed when no one else did. 

So he steps back. 

“I don’t want to hurt her.” He hears Logan whisper and has to strain to hear the rest. “I don’t want to be like him.”

Keith watches, a little stunned, when Veronica opens her door and lets him in. 

“You’re nothing like Aaron, kid.”

***

He tries not to think about what must have happened, what it must have been like for her last night, and instead he decides to check the machine. Not surprisingly, there are the two calls he made, police officers wanting to organize times to clarify statements, several friends asking how Veronica is, Wallace, reporters eager for an early scoop. 

And Cliff. 

Where to start is not a hard decision. Even as he turns the sound back up, the receiver begins to shrill in his hand. 

“Mars residence.”

“Keith? Is that you? Good god. I thought you were dead.”

The voice is laved heavily with sarcasm, but he can hear the underlying relief and it makes him smile. 

“Yeah, I hear that’s going around.” He lets a smile flow into his own words. “Sorry to disappoint, Cliff. What can I do for you?”

“Haven’t seen the Echolls kid have you? Been chasing him around all morning. Apparently, he was seen leaving the Neptune Grand with Veronica.” All the fun leaves Cliff’s voice. “Bad news, Aaron is dead.”

Dead?

“Yeah.” And if Logan still needs to be notified, then it means that wasn’t one of the horrific things he and Veronica are still processing about the night. “Here’s here, hang on.”

He knows, just by looking, that Logan suspects something is wrong. Keith’s eyes linger on just how close Veronica is to the boy. 

“Logan, it’s Cliff, he’s been looking for you.”

The phone leaves his hand and Logan steps away, gliding across the small space until he’s as far from the two of them as possible. There’s a division in the room, Logan on one side and Keith and Veronica on the other. 

He folds his arms around Veronica and holds her tight as she asks him what’s wrong, the news affects her, too, but right now it’s Logan’s turn and he shakes his head. 

“Really? How? Do they know who?” 

He can tell by the way Veronica tightens that she knows there’s something wrong. It doesn’t surprise him when she drops her arms from around him and goes to stand by Logan. 

For many months, he would have gladly seen this boy strung up by his toes and flayed alive for the torture he put Veronica through. For several months after that he was tolerated. 

But now, watching how easily Logan and Veronica gravitate towards each other when one of them needs the other, Keith has to stand back.

***


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I be in a coma?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R. Light R, really, but there's things.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, Keith. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things. Except Logan's man neck thing of lickable shells. I'm claiming that.   
> **Wordcount:** 4,954.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** In Veronica’s world of perfect make believe it was a lot easier.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Veronica's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY**  
*~*~*~*

She doesn't know what she's doing. 

"What say we blow this whole thing off?" She knows her voice is too cheerful, that her eyes are too bright. "You, me, Logan, Backup even, driving up the coast, nothin' but the open road. Glorious amounts of snack food, wind blowing in your hair. All three of them."

Keith looks at her sadly, even if she can't admit it to herself, he knows what she's doing. 

"C'mon." She pleads, a little less eager. "It'll be fun."

"Veronica." He sighs and leans over to kiss her forehead again, he's been doing it all morning. She's been letting him. "I'd love nothing more than to run away right now, but we have New York, besides you have interviews with certain a sheriff and his merry men."

"I know." She pouts, adding just enough little girl to make it sell through the play. "Can't you just write me a note?"

"You know the rules, honey." It's a serious face, but his eyes are shining. "You're over eighteen now, you can write your own notes."

"Ah. I think I know this one." Her chin rests lightly on her clasped hands. "Please excuse Veronica from police interrogation today as she is unwell."

"Unwell?" His brow furrows. "That stopped working sometime in middle school. This is the police, you might wanna make it more serious."

"Can I be in a coma?"

"No."

"Limbs torn asunder?"

He laughs and it makes everything worth it. 

"Might be a little hard to fake that one."

Her eyes roll. 

"Well, I can't use exhaustion due to covering for inept police work. I used that last year."

"You know, I've been thinking..."

She cuts him off. 

"No to giant, protective bubbles and/or moving to Amish country."

"But...?"

This time, it's Veronica that leans over and kisses him. 

"I said no."

It's all so normal she wants to cry. He's sitting there making jokes and she's laughing with him and just last night she thought she'd never have this again. But his eyes are already watching her too closely, worried, and so she smiles even further. 

And knows that neither of them believe it. 

"So it's agreed?" He asks. "We stay in Neptune, you can leave your bubble for three hours a day, but you have to go through the complete police rigmarole for today."

"Make it five hours a day and you've got yourself a deal, mister."

Keith grins and she tries not to notice that it doesn't quite reach his eyes as he grabs for the phone. They hear her bedroom door open and Veronica knows this moment has passed. Logan will join them again, refreshed from a shower, but crumpled in yesterday's clothes, and they'll be the awkward three that doesn't know how to be together. 

Logan smiles nervously at her when she stands to meet him, hand ruffling through his still damp hair. Her throat closes up and she hopes this isn't how it's always going to be. 

Hopes that she'll be able to prick the slimy, gossamer edges of the boundaries that both Keith and Logan have put up. That one day the ease she has with her father and the ease she has with Logan, separately, will bleed into each other and she can breathe when they're all together. 

Because that's what she wants, it comes to her suddenly but not surprisingly, and she knows she's going to fight for it. 

***

She tries, she does, she tries so incredibly hard that it hurts her. 

Backup whines against her leg as she faces the ocean, watching the waves crash loudly again and again. His leash hangs limply from her right hand. They've only been out here for a few minutes. Not long enough for her to get any exercise, let alone the dog at her heels. 

But Backup knows her. 

And Veronica hurts, she can't even breathe properly out here. She left her shoes behind, up on the deck, and her toes dig into the sand. Cold, clammy, slimy sand soaked by the rushing tide. It's too early for the shore to have sucked any warmth out of the day. 

Backup knows she shouldn't be out alone, that she wants to go back to the apartment, even if it's to hear Logan and her father dance around their resentments. 

A year ago, she would have just told them to get the hell over themselves and left them to it until they did, months ago she would have forced them to talk it over, weeks ago, days ago, she would have done something else. 

Today, now, all she can do is stay quiet, to melt into the background and not ruin anything. Too afraid to break the spell that keeps them there. Once upon a time she felt that Keith would always be there, that he would never leave. She doesn't have that anymore. 

And she never had it with Logan. 

She hates feeling this weak, hates it. The Veronica she's grown to be, that she knows she should be, wouldn't let herself feel like that. 

Wouldn't let herself clutch feebly at the one person who keeps hurting her, who keeps taking, finding fresh and new ways to rip her life apart, wouldn't keep gravitating to the pain. 

Her and Logan are like that, she doesn't want to think that way, but there's no other way to describe it. They flay each other raw, just to comfort themselves. They break each other down to build themselves up. It's destructive, she knows it, but it feels good. 

It makes her wonder if they can ever be anything else. If the adrenaline which drives them together can ever settle and flow into something more stable. 

She tries not to need them, because it's going to end badly, last night showed her that, she tries hard. 

***

"Hey you." 

Logan greets her with a smile when she walks through the door. He's sitting on the couch and his eyes light up when he sees her, back straightening. It makes her breathing easier. 

"Hey." She says softly. 

She counts to five as she stands just inside the door. 

The silence and expectation stretches out and makes her skin crawl, so she smiles again and pretends nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. Not a thing as she carefully walks to the chair and reaches for the bag slumped by its side. 

His hand closes on her wrist before she can sit down and she lets herself be pulled over to his side. Her back is suddenly warm up against his chest as his arm settles around her shoulder and down her arm.

"How're you feeling?" She angles her head up to ask his neck. 

"I don't know." 

Inside her bag, her fingers find the small, compact piece of metal she'd been avoiding all morning. There are three new messages and two voice mails waiting. It's a sharp contrast to the answering machine. 

Her fingers find the keys automatically, before she checks her inbox, and she texts Mac to let her know she's available any time, whenever she needs, just let her know. Before she can even begin her message to Wallace, it vibrates in her hand. 

"Mac?" Veronica sits up straight, feeling Logan's hand slide up her arm. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." There's a pause. "Maybe. Not yet. Soon. My mom hasn't left me alone since... all morning."

"Parents." Veronica agrees, feeling relieved that Mac at least sounds better than she did last night. "They'll do that."

"What about you, Veronica?" For a second, she's confused by the edge of worry in Mac's voice. "How are you doing? Is Logan still with you?"

And then she remembers. 

"Oh god, Mac, no. Dad's alive. He wasn't on the plane." She's going to have to get used to saying those words. "And yeah, Logan's still here. He's been great."

The fingers of her free hand find the fingers of Logan's.

"Good." Another pause and Veronica hears Mac swallow. "That's good. I'm glad."

"Do you need anything?" She rushes to ask, to fill the gap. "We'll probably be at the sheriff's office all day, but if you need anything, just let me know, okay?"

It's a small, bitter laugh over the phone. 

"Yeah, me too. I'm beginning to understand why you hate the law around here so much."

"I don't hate the law." She feigns innocence. "It hates me."

"And Veronica?" She knows what's coming, can hear it in Mac's voice. "I'm sorry, I..."

"No." She makes her voice serious and leaves no room for argument. "You didn't do anything. I don't want to hear that from you. I mean it."

There's something that sounds a little too much like sniffling. 

"But..."

"I am right, you will listen to me. I'm worldly, remember? Just let me know when you're free of paperwork and the like and we'll be right over. Promise."

"Okay." It's such a small voice that answers her. "Thanks."

She stares at the phone in her hand for a few seconds until she feels Logan nuzzling the top of her head. 

"I kinda hate the world, you know?"

His chest rises under her and she can't tell if it's because he tried to laugh or tried not to cry. 

"Me too." He sighs. "Though I think it's mutual in my case."

His skin is warm as she trails her fingers up and down his wrist. 

"Just one more." She promises him. "Then we've gotta go."

"Yeah." It's a sigh. "Because I'm so eager to spend the day answering pointless questions and drinking battery acid from Styrofoam cups."

Her ears pulse with her own heartbeat as she listens to the dial tone on the other end. It rings exactly two and a half times. 

"Veronica." His voice is breathless when he answers. "I've been trying to call you."

"Hey Wallace." It's all business. "Tell your mom dad's okay. He wasn't on the plane."

"Yeah, we know." His voice is warm and familiar and so very welcome. "She's on the phone to him right now. It's you I'm worried about, girl."

"Oh, you know me." She breezes the words out, airy and unconcerned, the complete opposite to how she feels. "Nothing phases this girl, I'm fine."

It should bother her that Wallace and Logan give identical little snorts in stereo, it should, but it doesn't. 

"Yeah, I do know you." Wallace insists. "Which is why I just said I was worried and didn't ask you."

"Really." This time the smile is genuine. "Wallace, I'm fine."

"Call me later?"

"Done."

She settles back against Logan and pulls their joined hands up in front of her face so she can watch the patterns her skin makes with his. There should be some period of adjustment, a relearning, something, but there isn't. It's familiar and she knows it, her eyes trailing the faint whorls that make up the lines in their skin. 

There's nobody left for him to call.

"What are you going to do?"

Neither of them pretend not to know what she means. 

"Light a bonfire." He says and she can't tell if he's joking, can't tell if she wants him to be. "And dance on his grave."

***

Not surprisingly, the sheriff's office is beyond chaos when they get there. 

The first thing that hits them when they walk in the door is the noise. The building which usually holds a dozen or so people, maybe two dozen if there's a press conference, is now crowded with over a hundred witnesses, officers, counselors, State and Federal Police. 

Their sound buzzes in her head and she blinks, Logan's hand on the small of her back pressed her forward. 

It's bedlam. That's the word that echoes through her brain as she tries to make sense of it. Officers have cordoned off seats in the waiting area and are taking statements there. People crowd the doorway, talking in hushed whispers. Others cry. 

She and Logan shuffle their way to the front desk. 

"Mrs. Johansen?" Deputy Sachs holds up a finger for them to wait. "I'm calling from the Neptune County Sheriff's Department. Did your son, Brian, play Little League for the Neptune Sharks in 2002?"

Veronica's hand shakes as she brings it up to bite at her fingernails, her eyes glue themselves to the floor. 

"We're going to need to schedule an appointment for you, your husband and your son with one of our deputies and a County psychologist. If you'd like to contact any legal agent..."

She twists towards Logan. 

"I can't do this."

He kisses the top of her head. 

"Yes you can."

It seems like forever before Sachs puts down the phone and gestures them forward. She clings to Logan's hand as Sachs tells them it might be a bit of a wait, but they're definitely in line and an agent will be with them shortly, then points them to some miraculously empty chairs. 

Her eyes trail over the people, too many faces, too many stunned, shocked and grieving faces. It makes her feel guilty, indescribably guilty that she escaped their lot, that she'd been pulled up this morning. 

Not everybody's father got off the plane. Or took their sons out of Little League. Or were rich enough for their children to take a limo instead of a bus that smelled. 

Veronica stops, still, and reaches out to hook her hand into Logan's elbow. 

"Logan." She nods down a hallway. "Look."

There's an officer standing in the middle of the corridor, blocking the path of everyone who tries to get past, standing there with a stern expression on his face. She wonders how often he'd needed to stop somebody from clawing their way through, how long he'd been standing there to be a wall against grief and anger and blame. 

At the very end of the hall, lost and lonely, back bent as he sits crouched in an uncomfortable plastic chair, is Dick Casablancas. 

"You should go."

Logan looks surprised. 

"What about you?" She feels his hand hovering at her arm, feels his concern wash over her and she basks in it. "Veronica..."

"Go." She nods. "I'll be fine."

But she's lying. 

She feels it as he walks away, a great chasm of loss that doesn't make sense. Her eyes watch him, step by step, as he leaves her and her body can't move. She's standing still, immovable in the ocean of chaos, unable to take her eyes away as the guard makes a move forward and she sees Logan protesting. 

Then she sees Dick make a gesture and Logan is suddenly through the invisible barrier. 

They sit side by side and Veronica can't ever remember Dick looking so broken as their heads nod slowly. It's a tragic parody of grief. Nothing about the boy she knew, the Dick Casablancas that made crude and lewd jokes, that chugged kegs, that thought sexual harassment was a hobby, that thought unconscious girls were able to give consent... 

Nothing about that boy suggested anything resembling what she'd felt last night, what she'd felt until she'd seen Keith again. 

She gasps when they both look up at the same time, Dick and Logan, and stare directly at her. It hits her again that Dick is Cassidy’s brother, that he lost, that he probably shares her burden in believing he could have, should have done something to stop it. But she knows Dick and she knows his articulation skills stop somewhere at: Blame Ronnie. 

She can't hear the words they're saying and she doesn't want to as she twists away from them, mouth gaping for air like a fish out of water.

"Veronica Mars? Don't you ever go home?"

Oh, god, not now. 

She closes her eyes and reaches out for the nearest desk, grabbing hold of it like it could stop her falling. The dizziness threatens to overwhelm her and she leans forward, the edge biting at chest height. 

"Not until I get a retainer, Deputy." The words are bitten out, quick and sharp, and nothing like the feeling of jelly her whole body gives off. "Tell me, are you ever going to solve any of your cases yourself?"

She can't breathe and his voice is too close. 

"I'm still Sheriff, Veronica." Too close and too amused. "Did it ever occur to you that it's...?"

"Are you the one taking my statement?" She doesn't let him finish as her head bows down, resting on the desk, as her hands claw at the other edge, keeping her as upright as she's ever been. "Are you?"

"No." He sounds puzzled and a little disappointed. 

"Then leave me alone." She curses herself, can't stand the taste of begging in her mouth, but she won't cry in front of him. She won't. "Please, just go away."

"No, really, are you alright?" The feel of his hand coming to rest on her back makes her want to dissolve, melt away and be gone. What makes it worse, she thinks, is that she can really hear the concern in his voice "Veronica?"

She wants to take his concern and spew it out all over his shiny shoes. 

"Please?" She is crying now and her knees won't hold her up much longer, no matter how desperately she presses her forehead into the cool desk. "You win, okay? Whatever game you're playing now, you win, just go away."

"Hey!" It comes like a rush of cold air into her lungs, Logan's voice. "What are you doing, man? Haven't you done enough?"

There's more words, she can hear them, but she doesn't care as she feels hands at her sides and twists to bury herself back into Logan's chest, lets him shuffle her over to the chairs. 

"I'm sorry." She whispers and doesn't know why. She hasn't done anything. "Logan, I'm..."

"Shh." He whispers back. "Guy's a jerkoff."

"Ah." Comes a voice, deep and guttural and beautiful amid the mess. "Vee, there you are, your conference... um... chair... awaits."

It's the closest thing she can get to her dad right now and she doesn't care about professional boundaries as she launches herself at Cliff, arms wrapping around him. 

"Lamb." She hears Logan explain over her shoulder. 

"Enough said." Cliff says as he awkwardly pats her hair. "As your official representation, I can glare at him a lot. You want?"

"Knock yourself out." She smiles into the scratchy wool of his jacket. 

Then sniffles. 

"Lovely." He takes her arms and pushes her back. "Take a moment, powder your nose, whatever. You've got statements to make."

***

In Veronica's world of perfect make believe, the Sheriff's station is quiet and calm and efficient, giving her statement takes only moments. She's cool and collected and the agents are impressed with her attention to detail and dogged search for truth and justice. 

In Veronica's world of perfect make believe, it doesn't take hours bandying back and forth between one minor detail to the next, miniscule things that make her want to scream. Voices don't rise in arguments that go round and round in useless, pointless circles. 

Her private moments of frustration as she falls apart, again and again, aren't public and open to viewing. 

In her perfect world of make believe. 

It was a lot easier last night when she was numb. 

***

"Hey." Logan finally says as he puts his arms around her shoulders. "Where do you want to go now?"

She's not even sure where his jacket comes from, but she's glad to have the warmth as he threads her arms through it. It's large and baggy and dwarves her as they step outside. 

Her eyes glint up into the sun that's already starting to set. 

"Take me home."

***

Walking through the door is harder than she thought, mostly because she hadn't thought about it at all. But the lights are off and it's quiet, too quiet, deathly still. 

Her father isn't home and she has to breathe in deep before she can force herself to step inside. 

Keith Mars is alive. 

And, according to the note he left on the counter, he's going to be tied up at the sheriff's station, ironically enough, for many hours to come. Then he's going to visit Alicia. Most probably, he's also going to be calling three or four times each hour. 

She knows that routine by heart. 

Veronica sighs as she looks around the quiet apartment. She knows this routine as well, learned it special less than twenty four hours before. 

“Oh, hey.” Logan gestures excitedly to a glass server sitting on the kitchen bench. “What’s this?”

“That.” Veronica grins widely. “Is a German Chocolate Nutgasm. Courtesy, if I’m not mistaken, of one Wallace Fennell.”

She watches Logan eye the whole cake, displayed with pride on the bench, and grabs a knife.

“You want a plate, Veronica? Or should we just grab a fork each and go to town?”

“Nah.” She screws up her nose. “I don’t feel like eating, but you have fun.”

It’s not a lie, her stomach rolls at the very thought of food. She’d eased her way delicately through a sandwich over lunch as Logan watched her, bite by torturously painful bite, swallowing dryly. 

Somehow saliva was harder to produce when you cried out seventy five percent of your body’s water supply in County issue tissues. 

All she wants to do is curl up and it must show in her face. 

"Let's see what's on TV, then." Logan shuffles his way past her and onto the couch, grabbing the remote easily. "There has to be something worth watching."

Avoidance. Seems Logan knows some routines of his own. 

***

Veronica lies on her back, her head resting in the curve of Logan's hip as he laughs at something Jay Leno says. She isn’t listening. She’s concentrating on the arm that drape over her, snaking under her arm and around her waist, his hand resting over the plane of her ribs. 

He barely moves his fingers, but her skin is dotted with gooseflesh in his wake. 

Her eyes angle up and she watches the underside of his chin in the half light from the screen, the adam's apple that bobs with laughter, the scruff of his unshaven skin, the line of his neck as his tendon pulses. 

One day, he isn’t going to be here, she knows it, he’ll be gone somewhere, to someone who doesn’t tear him down and apart. And she'll be left by herself, standing alone and shivering on a rooftop somewhere, wondering how she ever got there. 

Again. 

Without warning, without knowing why, she twists so that she lies on her belly, his hand dragging over her side and around her hip, coming to rest on the small of her back.

As he looks down at her, his eyes tempered with worry, she springs, pushing herself so that her mouth is on his and it feels better. His mouth is, just like she remembers, lush and full and open for her. 

"Veronica." He gasps and pushes her shoulders back. "What are you doing?"

"Well." Her hips press forward, pushing her belly into his side and her knees into his hip. "If you need me to answer that, I think we have a problem."

His arm curls around her waist, she can feel it snaking around her back, and he pulls her close as he looks at her, eyes scanning her face. His other hand comes up to brush the side of her face. 

"I don't think..."

"Please?" It's a breathy little whisper, one she knows from experience he can't resist. "Logan, don't get serious on me now, just... let’s have this."

And she doesn't give him any time to come up with a reason to deny her, not that he's going to, she can already feel his shoulders relax and his fingers twitch as he pulls her closer.

This time it's his mouth that lands on hers, demanding and forceful and yes, this is what she wants. His hands running up under her shirt, his mouth sucking at hers, his voice murmuring low in his throat. 

She wants it hard and fast and enough to forget. 

Her body moves of its own accord as she shifts again, brings herself up and hooks her leg over both of his until she straddles him. The look on his face is part awe and wonder and part devil. God, how she missed that. 

His fingers hold her waist for a second, wrapped nearly all the way around her back, dwarfing her. She loves that, she thinks she might have told him once when they were dating before, loves that his hands can flatten themselves over her spine and warm the expanse of her skin. 

It makes her feel safe. 

Then she’s grabbing his face and angling it up so she can attack his neck, suck at the salty skin of it until he groans. She makes him groan and it’s a heady rush. 

She can feel him, his hands caressing her shoulders, pausing there, before pushing lower, before cupping her through her shirt and running his thumbs over her nipples. 

It’s her groaning now, pushing the sound out of her throat like an order, begging him to go faster. 

He’s a quick learner, he always was as her shirt lands on the floor and his mouth lands on her neck. He knows the spot on her neck, where her tendons dissolve into her collar, knows how hard to suck to make her shudder. 

It’s warm again and she loves it. 

Her hips grind down onto him and he groans again, maybe even whispers her name into her skin, begging her for something as he unhooks her bra. 

“C’mon.” She nuzzles his face with hers as she hooks her hands into his shirt and drags it up off his body. “You’re lagging here.”

Her holds her face between his hands and kisses her slowly, deeply. Too slowly, it’s not enough, not what she needs as she skates her fingernails across his chest, making his nipples hard.

She pulls at his shoulders at the same time her ankles hook under his legs and before he even knows what’s happening, she’s lying on her back and he’s on top of her, pressing down. 

Her hips thrust up when his hand lands there. 

“Veronica?”

His hips thrust down when her hand trails over the seam of his fly. 

“Logan, please.”

She can’t help but close her eyes when his forehead rests on hers. He pushes it harder so it’s almost an ache in her skull, tries to make her open her eyes, his mouth places light kisses on her face, over her cheeks and nose and lips. 

“Look at me.”

Instead, she unbuttons her own jeans and pulls his hand low down on her belly. 

“Veronica, c’mon, look at me.”

She should take a moment to digest that this is further than they ever got over the summer, but she doesn’t. A small whimper makes it out of her mouth, frustration at the fact that he’s all but stopped moving. 

“Logan, please, just do it.”

Then he pulls away. 

“Just…?” She hears the anger in his voice. “Jesus, Veronica, this isn’t a Nike ad!”

Her eyes open then and she’s lying there, bare chest heaving and pants pushed down her hips, waiting and wanting. 

“No.” Her arms scramble for purchase, trying to sit herself up. “Logan, that’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah?” He sits at the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, panting hard. “But that’s what you said.”

“It came out wrong.” She pleads, drawing her knees up so she can twist herself into a sitting position, aligning herself next to him. “You know what I meant. I want this, I do. I’m ready.”

“Really?” He looks at her and she can see hurt in his eyes. “Well, maybe I’m not. Okay?”

She can’t breathe when he leans down, arm pushing between his knees, and picks up her shirt, tossing it to her as he stands up. 

“Just go to bed, Veronica.”

***

She goes to bed, but she doesn’t go to sleep. 

She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling. She tries to cry and wonders why she can’t. Her body betrays her, alert and buzzing, wanting more of what she shouldn’t have started. 

Her ears pick out the sound of Logan shuffling around the apartment, she hears the sound of the shower and then more shuffling before things get quiet. 

He was right, she knows that. Knows that she really isn’t ready, but that she can’t keep feeling nothing or everything. Something has to give. But she shouldn’t make him be that something. 

An hour, maybe more, passes before she hears the unmistakable click of the front door, the small pad of Backup’s paws plodding over to greet her father, the rumble of his voice as he talks good naturedly to the dog. He doesn’t say anything to Logan, so she assumes he’s sleeping. 

She can’t even contemplate the possibility that he’s not there. She would have heard him leave, she would have, she would have know… she… 

Her fingers drum impatiently on her arm as she waits for the sound of her father settling himself down for the night. Then she waits hours more, until her eyes are so heavy she can feel them melting and oozing out onto her cheeks. 

Veronica grabs her pillow and her blanket and softly pads out into the living room. She stands and stares with relief at Logan curled up on the couch. Then she spreads her makeshift bed out on the floor next to him. 

He doesn’t wake up, but she falls asleep. 

***


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's never been this angry before. Never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R. It's Logan. Language and sex references.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, Keith. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things. Except Logan's man neck thing of lickable shells. I'm claiming that.   
> **Wordcount:** 5,813.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** Nobody asks why.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Logan's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part seven**  
*~*~*~*

Showering, for him, has never been about the sloughing of dead skin cells, it's about letting the water clean away the remains of the day, hour, minutes, weeks before. Angling the nozzle at the deepest aches, imagining everything falling off his body and gurgling down around the swollen skin of his feet in filmy suds before slipping into the drain and washing away. 

Logan imagines that now, hot rivulets slide down his neck and pick up all the traces of the night before, that moment he saw Beaver aiming the gun at Veronica -- _at Veronica!_ \-- and he'd thought it would be the last he'd ever see of her. The soap drags across the soft flesh of his underbelly, catching on the sound of her voice when she'd announced her father's death and dropping it with a splash to the tiles. 

He spits and watches the drain swallow it, Veronica's not dead, Keith's not dead. 

The moment he turns the faucets off, stops the torrent of water, Logan can feel the sticky, tacky fingers of reality inching over his skin. Veronica's alive, yes, Keith's alive, no doubt about that, but that doesn't change the fact that things were broken and he's the last person in the world qualified to try and fix them. 

When the hell did he, Logan Echolls fuck up du jour, become anything resembling a savior to Veronica Mars?

The reasons why aren't important, they never are. 

Nobody ever asked him why he was there, why he took days off school when he was nine to hold a mirror up to his mother's mouth to make sure it fogged, why he bit the inside of his cheek and smiled for the cameras when his father's hand rested heavy on his shoulders, why he took Lilly back time and time again when she treated him like shit. 

Nobody ever asks the savior why they're there to help. 

His fingers itch on the clothes, even though he knows they're just clothes, just material cut into shapes, but his skin feels the taint of yesterday on them. Crumpled, unironed, they scream of death. 

He opens the door and sees Veronica, sees her stand to face him, and he sees the corners of her eyes crinkle with nervousness. This girl, she isn't a powder pink shadow and she isn't hard and sharp as broken glass, she's just standing there waiting for him as she bites her lip and he has to smile back. 

Nobody ever asks why. 

***

He should leave. That's what he does. Logan Echolls, good for a laugh, for a quick joke, for tearing down innocent girls to make his own life easier, for having a long fuse attached to a powder keg that detonates around everyone he cares about. 

Keith was right. 

He should put on his shoes while Keith is in the bedroom answering the million and one messages waiting for him, while Veronica is out walking Backup. He needs to stand up and walk out of this apartment without looking back. 

Walk right out of her life before he can fuck it up again. 

There's nowhere he can go. There is no Echolls mansion, no Kane mansion, he's fairly sure the Casablancas are otherwise occupied and he won't go back to the Grand just yet. There's no one to turn to, he's given up hope of ever finding his mother, his father is splattered over a television screen and not before time either, his best friend is running from the federal police, and he has no other friends that aren't dead or mourning the dead. 

It sticks in his throat that he could buy anything he wants and all he has is Veronica. Poor little rich boy. He'd make fun of himself if it wasn't so pathetic. 

It's funny, really, if he looks at it the right way. That Veronica, when she's like this, at her weakest and most vulnerable, is the most likely to tear him apart. 

He better not pooch screw this like he does everything else. It's a matter of survival now. 

***

Backup pushes in through the door before she does and Logan has a second of preparing himself before she actually shows her face. He's ready with a lazy smile, no trace of the sudden eagerness or excitement that she brings out in him. 

"Hey you."

He's not sure what he expects, maybe a rise to a barb, or an equally flirty response, something more akin to her old self. But her smile is neither. 

"Hey." 

She's still nervous. 

For some reason, and he doesn't want to analyze why, her nerves make him more relaxed, more sure of himself. She doesn't know what's happening either, but she knows enough to be scared of the two of them together. 

He can't help himself as she prepares to sit herself down in the chair opposite the couch. He wants her with him, wants to let her know that he's there and she doesn't have to be so jittery. 

Reassure her, somehow, even if it's just to reassure himself. 

So he clasps her wrists and pulls her to the couch. She doesn't even try to fight him and he has a brief moment of regret, of nostalgia for the power games they fought over their summer together, each trying to end up on top, each trying to pin the other down. 

This passive Veronica is a strange new creature.

***

Logan feels mean when he gets there. 

When he watches her pull together to talk to Mac, after watching her laugh with Keith. It's the idea that she needs to be needed, thrives on swooping down on the poor and down trodden, addicted to the idea of saving everyone. That's what keeps her going. That's why she ended it over the summer. 

Because he started taking control and needed her less. 

It makes him mean to even think it, even if he dismisses it instantly, even if the very idea makes him want to laugh. He knows why she ended it, knows that he was unfair and cruel and she gave him every opportunity to prove her wrong. 

He knows that it's not his weakness that attracts her to him now, not his despair that makes her pliant and familiar against him. 

It's hers. 

And he might just be the one addicted to being needed. 

"Just one more." The words come out of her mouth as if she's giving him a present. "Then we've gotta go."

He doesn't tell her that he knows what she means by what she's not saying, that he's happy to sit here all day and just feel her skin under his and equally happy to chase her around the town if that's what she tells him to do. Anything, as long as she lets him come along. 

"Yeah." He sighs instead. "Because I'm so eager to spend the day answering pointless questions and drinking battery acid from Styrofoam cups."

She's sitting scrunched up into his side and he's got his arm around her, pretending not to hear the conversations, pretending not to care so much that people he doesn't know are alright. He watches her, soft against him, as she takes care of her friends, puts them before herself, and it burns a little. 

He sees her face blown out and bruised because of Aaron, sees her floating and groundless after Lilly's death because of Aaron, sees her on the stand being torn down and shredded in front of the world because of Aaron. He sees everything Aaron's done to her. 

She leans her head back and her eyes are for him now. 

"What are you going to do?"

"Build a bonfire." It's the only answer he can think to give. "And dance on his grave."

Logan sees her face blown out and tear stained because of him, sees her floating and groundless after Lilly's death because of him, sees her taking a stand and being torn down and shredded in front of the school because of him. He sees everything the Echolls have done to her. 

He doesn't tell her that he's just like his father and can't do anything but hurt her in the end. 

Doesn't tell her that if it really does happen, he'll make sure he dances on his own grave. 

***

He'd cut his baby teeth in large, buzzing crowds. Film premiers where people gushed over the latest drivel like it was a cure for cancer. Logan Echolls was nothing if not prepared for crowds. 

He herds Veronica through the bustle when she seems overwhelmed by all the people and it vaguely occurs to him to wonder when she started letting herself get overwhelmed. 

"Mars and Echolls reporting for duty." He grins as he salutes. "Sir."

The deputy behind the counter signals at them to wait. He'd never bothered to learn their names, beyond Lamb and Leo. And those two were for two very different reasons, both concerning Veronica. This one he likes to refer to as the seventies porn star, complete with moustache. He can practically hear the _bom chucka_ follow the man around. 

It's obvious by the way Veronica shudders next to him that she doesn't suffer from the same problem. 

"I can't do this."

She's so skittish he frowns and kisses the top of her head. 

"Yes you can." 

_You're Veronica Mars, you can do anything._ Those words are sure to get him an eye roll and he's tempted just for that, but he doesn't. Something tells him she's not up for jokes just yet. 

It gives him a thrill, he has to admit, that she calms under his touch, makes him buzz just a little. 

"Okay." Porn man waves them back as he looks through some papers on the desk. "You're booked in soon. Not a lot to cover, just niggly stuff. An agent will be with you soon."

Logan eyes the waiting room, the harried looking officers clenching their fingers tight so as not to aggravate or unnecessarily upset the witnesses that are all, no doubt, giving completely opposing views at to what happened. 

_"Like one, huge fireball in the sky..."_

_"Small little pops, like firecrackers..."_

It's a bitter little voice inside his head that wonders if any of them saw the Mayor get into a van just before the plane blew up. 

"Logan." Veronica grabs his elbow and stops him in his tracks. "Look."

His eyes follow her nod and he shouldn't be surprised to see Dick, of course he'd have to be here, but he's astounded they've just left him in full view of everyone. 

Like he needed another reason to hate Sheriff Lamb. 

"You should go."

He has to blink twice before he fully understands what she's suggesting. By all rights, Veronica should hate Dick, should wish many horrid things on him, but she's obviously concerned. 

"What about you?" It's a valid question, she's pale and she hasn't stopped trembling since they set foot in the door. "Veronica..."

"Go." She tries to smile as she nods, tries to look confident and fails miserably. "I'll be fine."

The steps he takes are slow and cautious. He's not sure exactly what to expect. It's possible Dick is angry with him for what happened up on the roof. It's also possible that Dick doesn't know the full details and will ask impossible questions. Logan doesn't know if he can lie to make Dick feel better. 

"Hey." A solid wall materializes in his path. "Can't go past here."

"That's my friend." He insists.

"Sorry..."

But there's a softer voice that interrupts them. 

"Hey man, it's cool. Logan's a friend."

A friend. The very word makes him feel guilty. 

"Hey." Logan sits carefully next to him. "How're you doing?"

They're like a twin set, some tacky statuettes that Lynn would have picked up because they made her laugh and made Aaron cringe, sitting together side by side in matching poses. Elbows resting on their knees, they bow their heads and look at the ground. 

Friends in Awkward Grief, the little card would say. 

"Dude." Dick sighs. "It was the Beave, you know? The fucking _Beave._ "

"Yeah."

They don't look at each other. 

"I don't know what to do." He sounds lost and lonely. "There's no one... Mom's flying back from Europe. Fast as she can, right? Kendall's off answering questions about..."

The words cut off suddenly. 

"My dad?" Logan gives a half hearted chuckle. It sounds and tastes bitter. "She found him, I know."

"Dude." How he can give one word infinite meaning is beyond him. "This sucks."

Trust Dick to sum up the situation so succinctly. 

"Yeah."

"What they said..." There's the unfamiliar sound of vulnerability in Dick's voice. "The things they said he did. The bus. Curly. The Mayor's plane."

There's a brief pause before Dick sneaks a glance at him. It's just long enough for Logan to see the puffy eyes and swollen nose. 

"Ronnie's Dad." They both look up together. "Oh, god, Ronnie. I should say something..."

It stuns him, but he hides it. Veronica hasn't even moved, she's standing exactly where he left her. Dick sure knows how to pick the strangest moments to show concern for the people he likes to ridicule. 

"She's okay, man. You don't need to worry about her right now."

They sigh and go back to inspecting the ground at their feet. 

"The fuckin' _Beave_." Dick echoes. "Man."

There's nothing to say to that. Nothing that Logan can think of. Nothing in the etiquette books to cover it, no Hallmark card that read 'I'm sorry your brother was molested, but I'm glad he killed himself'. 

"He never said anything." It sounds like an explanation, like a plea for understanding. "Not one word to me about... that man. You think he tried?"

Logan shrugs. 

"I mean, you think he tried to tell me, but I was too much of a prick to notice?"

Probably, Logan thinks it, but he doesn't say it. 

"You can't blame yourself." He says instead.

"Joining the herd, huh?" Dick doesn't sound upset at the platitude, just resigned. "Hey man, what's that dude doing to Ronnie?"

Logan's half out of his chair before he even realizes what he's seeing. He knows how much she hates Sheriff Lamb, they've talked about it before, and he's seen first hand how much the man torments her. 

How much of a bastard does one man have to be to continue that right now?

"Look, I gotta..."

He doesn't get to finish the hurried explanation, because Dick is already waving him on. 

"Go. You go help her, I'm all good." His voice is lonely as it follows Logan down the corridor, wistful and lost. "Call me later, though, 'kay?"

It's a sad, pitiful state of affairs when a Sheriff station is filled to capacity with local, state and federal officers and Logan is still able to make his way, full force, to Sheriff Lamb and physically pull the creep's hand off Veronica's back. 

"Hey!" The fingers inside his twist and he tries not to gloat at the man's discomfort. "What are you doing, man? Haven't you done enough?" 

"Logan Echolls." The usual smug smile is gone, but the superior tone isn't. "What a surprise."

He wants to plant his fist in this guy's face, but Veronica is already hugging him close, wrapping her arms around his waist and threatening to cut off his air supply. 

So he acts the gentleman and doesn't get himself arrested. Today, at least. 

"Just leave her alone."

"Right." The urge to cause pain isn't lessened at all by the way the man drawls out the word, or the way his hips roll over the side of the desk, making his turn overly dramatic and casual all at the same time. "Guess I'll be seeing you soon, Echolls."

It's a wonder Keith Mars hasn't been arrested for murdering that man. Logan would be his alibi, unquestioned. 

"I'm sorry." He can barely believe Veronica's words when they come. "Logan, I'm..."

"Sh." He glares over her head at the amused eyes that watch them from across the room. "Guy's a jerkoff."

She nods into him and before he can think to say anything else, Cliff is there and Veronica is hugging him instead. Logan feels himself split down the middle, glad they're not alone anymore and a little bit jealous of the ease with which she transfers to people not him. 

***

She said she couldn't do it, but Logan knew she could. 

He watches her face grow flushed and her eyes spark as her jaw sets. He's seen that expression on her before and knows someone is going to be proven wrong. Most likely the agents taking her statements. 

Technically, he's not supposed to be there. It's Veronica, two agents and Cliff, but the room is open and the little plastic chairs roped off for this little activity aren't exactly making it a private affair. 

Logan stays close by and doesn't take his eyes off them. Every few minutes Veronica looks at him and he smiles back, or rolls his eyes, or shrugs. Whatever she seems to need at the time. 

Why the law even bothers to argue with her anymore, he doesn't know. 

Something catches his eye across the room. 

"Hey, Mr. Mars." He nods his greeting when he finally manages to navigate the crowd. "She's still..."

"I see." Keith answers with a patient smile. "I just came by let you know I picked up some clothes and things for you and left them in your car, I figured you wouldn't be able to..."

"Oh, no, that's great." The words are barely able to cover the relief he feels. "Seriously, thanks."

The air is still awkward between them. 

"Yeah. So." Keith shrugs. "I've got my own red tape to get through here, you'll look after each other?"

If that's what Keith is really asking, Logan's going to baptize himself, but he nods. He'll make sure Veronica's okay, that's what he's there for after all. 

"Here." Logan looks down to the small card Keith presses into his hand. "You can have that back, too."

As Keith walks away, Logan finds himself absently checking his wallet. It hadn't left his pocket. Not once. How the hell did the man get his hotel key card? 

And car?

***

Veronica is exhausted by the time she's released. Logan stops himself just in time, before the words 'into my custody' concrete in his brain. He's already this close to stepping the line from concerned friend to scary stalker. 

"Hey." Her shoulders droop when he touches them, falling like a soufflé, and he feels her shiver. "Where do you want to go now?"

Anywhere, his brain pleads, anywhere but here. He wants to lose himself in unfamiliar territory, just forget the day had happened, that the week had happened. Surround themselves with noise so loud that neither of them can think and they have to shout into each others' ears just so they can be heard. 

He knows she won't say this. Knows she's ready to fall down. His own statements were brief and over quickly enough to be painless. Hers weren't. They'd slowly sucked the life out of her, whatever stamina she'd built up that morning, which hadn't been much. 

So he puts his jacket around her shoulders and doesn't think about how good she looks in his clothes. 

"Take me home."

Logan nods and walks her to the car. He doesn't wonder whether she meant the word to sound as domestic as it did. Her home, not his, not theirs. He doesn't wonder, he doesn't. 

***

All the lights are off when they get to the apartment and Logan curses the idiocy of himself not even thinking about her reaction. She pauses only for a second before bracing herself. 

He wonders how hard it is to get over the shock of grief when the source of it is proven to be alive. 

He wishes he knew. 

There's a note on the counter and Veronica reads it with a small smile on her face, obviously Keith knows something about making her feel better. It's a strange tug on his chest. 

"Oh, hey." He says to cover it and gestures at the large cake on the bench. "What's this?"

"That..." Yup, that's not the distraction he hoped it would be as a dreamy, goofy expression comes over her face. "... is a German Chocolate Nutgasm. Courtesy, if I'm not mistaken, of one Wallace Fennel."

Wallace. Great. They must have some secret friend in joke or something. A huge laugh a minute, that sending a cake makes her smile. Logan trawls his memory in seconds, trying to find something between himself and Veronica that she'll think cutesy and lovable. 

It's a hard reach, there's a lot of tainted time between them, but he makes it his life mission to find an overly cute stuffed toy that reads 'I luv you beary much' if it kills him. 

There's only one thing to do in the meantime. 

"You want a plate, Veronica?" Destroy everyone else's handy work. "Or should we just grab a fork each and go to town?"

"Nah." The smile falls from her face and he frowns. "I don't feel like eating, but you have fun."

Yeah, like _that_ was the point. 

"Let's see what's on TV, then." She relaxes as he moves past her, tension melting into gratitude, and he feels like a heel for thinking about himself. "There has to be something worth watching."

***

He's wrong. There's nothing worth watching. 

It goes without saying that he avoids anything with news coverage. Watching wide eyed reporters stand outside the Neptune Grand stage whispering into microphones about _the tragedy_ would probably put them both into a catatonic state of permanent avoidance. 

Sooner or later, people are going to start referring to it in capital letters. And they're all already about four capital letter incidents too many for comfort. The Death of Lilly Kane. The Arrest of Aaron Echolls. The Bus Crash. Aaron Echolls' Acquittal. And now, The Neptune Grand Tragedy. 

He nearly turns the channel when he sees Leno, but the guy makes an offhand joke about Katie Holmes finding out she's pregnant and he realizes it's a rerun. Not even the possibility of accidental coverage of _The Tragedy_. 

Not that he's particularly paying attention to the screen. He's giving the expected chuckle now and then, probably even at appropriate times, but he can't tell and he doesn't really care. 

Logan's watching Veronica, feeling her lying against him, fitting into him like she used to do. He doesn't need funny notes or chocolate, he needs this, he just needs her with him. 

You, me and five bucks, Ethan Hawke says into his head. It makes him chuckle for real as his brain adapts it to at least fifty dollars. Logan Echolls does things in style. The sentiment remains the same either way. 

Her eyes burn into his chin as she angles herself to watch him. He wants to tell her to stop it, to keep it simple, to not do anything that will change the way things are going. 

Simple. Easy. Good. He hasn't screwed it up yet. 

But his life isn't simple and she’s kissing him. 

"Veronica." He can't help but gasp her name as he pushes her shoulders back. He wants to sigh and pull her in, to give into it, but he knows her. "What are you doing?"

"Well." Her voice is practically purring in his ear and he grinds his jaw to keep it still as she pushes her body into his. "If you need me to answer that, we have a problem."

It's not like doesn't want it. He does. He hasn't stopped wanting her. But this isn't the time, not when she's still so torn up and raw. Her eyes, though, her eyes are begging him. 

Her skin is warm, her body is willing, and her mouth parts. His eyes are drawn there, to the way her lips hover a fraction of an inch apart, red and glistening. 

It's been nearly twelve months since he's had her in his arms like this. Almost a year. That number sounds wrong in his head, so impossibly, obscenely long. 

He can't stop himself from reaching out to cup her cheek. 

"I don't think..."

But she doesn't give him a chance to finish that thought. 

"Please?" His whole body shudders at the throaty way she whispers it. She knows what that does to him, she damn well knows it. "Logan, don't get serious on me now, just... let's have this."

He's not sure who does what, only that she's pressing forward as he's pulling her closer and then he kisses her, really kisses her, tasting the inside of her mouth. Running his tongue along the aches of the day. 

Even as his brain shorts out, he tries to stop it. 

It's too fast, too much all at once as she shifts over him, moves to straddle him, pinning his legs down. Her weight is negligible, she's barely even there as she looks down at him. 

Her face is so close and he'd begun to think he'd only imagined how beautiful she could be all flushed, eyes blown out with lust, lips swollen and breath shuddering in and out of her mouth. He didn’t, he knows it now. 

Logan wants this so much it aches.

Wants it so much he pretends he's the asshole everyone thinks he is and gives in, wants to feel the bare skin of her back under her shirt. He knows it makes her putty in his hands, knows that she thrills to the smallest, briefest touches here and there. 

Her hands, god her hands grip his chin and push his face up and away, he can't even articulate what her mouth is doing to his neck. It pulls a groan out of his throat, a groan that wants to be a howl. 

His hands try to push her away, but they're traitorous beings as they slip into the top of her shirt and feel the divots underneath her collar bone. It's a little gasp as his thumb brushes over what he knows to be a taser scar. 

A viscous reminder that he has a matching one and what they both went through. 

He changes tactics and keeps his hands above her shirt as he moves them down and away, down to cup her breasts. She moans when he fondles her nipples to peaks, moans louder when he lifts her shirt up and away and it's so desperate and needy that he knows he has to stop and stop soon. 

His stomach clenches as she pushes down on him, grinds herself into him, and his moan echoes louder into her neck and across the room. He has to stop it, he tells himself as his fingers unhook her bra to get better access, he has to stop it because she's obviously not going to. 

"C'mon." Her voice is commanding and he's practically panting, trying to control himself as her face nuzzles his. "You're lagging here."

His shirt ends up on the floor. 

_Ve-ro-nica, pleeeeease_. He's incapable of saying it out loud, but he hopes his eyes do, hopes she gets the idea as he grips her face in his hands and tries to slow her down. Tries to tell her why as he kisses her slowly, deeply, just like he wants to. 

Apparently, his eyes speak a different language, as does his tongue, because the message he tries to send is certainly not the message she gets as her nails rake down his skin. 

That's not fair, it's not. He's defenseless against the torture of the pleasure pain principal. And she knows it. 

Definitely the wrong message as she flips them over, sinks herself back onto the couch and rests him between her knees. He has to stop it, his brain screams at him to do something, then her hand glides over his erection. 

_Fuck._

"Veronica?"

He can't stop the motion of his hips rolling forward, he feels his arms shaking as they try to hold him up and off her. 

"Logan, please."

Her voice breaks him, because it's the only confirmation he needs. 

He's not surprised when she closes her eyes. This isn't about him, it isn't about them or what she wants. It's about what she doesn't want, what she's trying to forget. 

His apology is given in kisses to the softest parts of her face, the lips that tremble, the eye lids that squeeze shut, the cheeks that drain of color. 

"Look at me." 

Veronica Mars is nothing if she isn't stubborn and focused and he almost gives in when she undoes her jeans and pushes his hand down the hot skin of her abdomen. 

"Veronica." He makes his tone more forceful. "C'mon, look at me."

He doesn't think she knows that her face is practically screwed up now, that she's shaking her head back and forth, not a lot, just slightly enough for him to notice. 

"Logan, please." Her voice cracks. "Just do it."

Oh, god, this isn't happening. He has to pull away. 

"Just...?" He's never been this angry before. Never. "Jesus, Veronica, this isn't a Nike ad!"

Angry with her. Angry with himself. Angry with Duncan. 

He can't deal with this, it isn't fair. 

It’s just not fair that she’s lying there with blood flooding the edges of her skin, rosy all the way down her neck and breasts, that her pupils are nearly twice their normal size. Not fair that he’s sitting there with the biggest damn hard on he’s ever had. 

And he has to say no. 

“No. Logan, that’s not what I meant.”

He can’t even look at her, but he feels her scramble up. 

“Yeah?” He should tell her what’s wrong, he should make her understand. “But that’s what you said.”

He should explain it to her in soft, simple words, but he can’t, because if he opens his mouth now he won’t be able to control himself. He’ll say too many things that can’t be said, that shouldn’t be said. Not now. 

And he’ll lose her without question. 

“It came out wrong.” She’s begging again, her voice cracking as she sits all the way up and joins him, the heat of her skin nearly burning him. “You know what I meant. I want this, I do. I’m ready.”

No she isn’t. 

“Really?” It’s not even a question, just a way for him to not say otherwise. “Well, maybe I’m not, okay?”

If Aaron Echolls were this good an actor, there would have been a lot more gold statues lying around the house. He’s so ready it hurts. It’s all he can do to reach down and pick up her shirt, running his thumbs over the warmth of it, before tossing it to her.

_Don’t do this to me, Veronica, please._

“Just go to bed, Veronica.”

***

Logan’s fists clench. 

Open. Close. Open. Close. 

_Do NOT punch tiles in shower._

He has to breathe through teeth that squeeze together so hard his jaw hurts. His brow presses against the cold tiles, hard enough to leave dents in his skin when he pulls away, little flashes of light bursting in his eyes like flashes. 

She doesn’t even understand what’s wrong. 

Cold water courses over his body. 

Logan remembers how much it ached when he sat in that damned hotel suite, how much it bothered him watching Veronica and Duncan together. She pretended to be happy, so he didn’t say anything. But he’s not an idiot. 

Veronica used sex so she didn’t have to think about her problems. Duncan used it so he didn’t have to deal with her not thinking about them. 

He remembers sitting on the floor in front of the TV screen, back against the couch and game control in hand, eyes barely even watching the game and feeling the cushions pouch out.

Late at night, in the dark, she’d often wander out. She never said anything, not then and not after, but Logan always wondered how she could be so restless and alert. Why Duncan managed to fall asleep and never care that she didn’t, couldn’t do the same. 

_She was crying, man_. Duncan’s voice echoes in his head. _What was I supposed to do?_

He doesn’t know if Veronica ever asked Duncan where that black eye came from. 

_Oh, I don’t know. How about not fucking up her already warped experiences? How about showing her that sex isn’t an act of aggression and selfishness?_

Logan refuses to do that, he doesn’t know how. He knows he has a widespread reputation as a boy slut, he’s perfectly aware of the hypocrisy that has him lauded for the same thing that Veronica was denigrated for, but he’s still not able to do that. There’s a world of difference between one night stands with Kendall and sex within a relationship. 

He can’t use her like that. 

He won’t. 

As if she wasn’t already screwed up enough as it was, spending a year and a half thinking she’d been raped. That sort of thing leaves marks, no matter how hard she tried to cover it up, no matter how easily she seemed to brush it off at the time. 

Logan has never been this angry with Duncan before. 

And he’s just as angry with Veronica for letting herself get that bad. 

Mostly, he’s just angry with himself for not stopping it all when it happened. 

God, this is not a talk he wants to have with her tomorrow, but it’s going to have to happen. Sooner or later. 

He leaves as little trace of himself in Keith’s room as he can after he finishes changing, then tries to settle himself on the couch. It’s not easy. His brain keeps sending him images of Veronica half naked and whimpering under him, unbuttoning her jeans and thrusting up. 

It’s almost as if he can smell her in the cushions. 

He spends an hour trying to convince himself not to get up and see her, walk into her room and show her what he meant. He’s too angry to do anything so stupid. 

When Keith finally gets home, Logan pretends to be asleep. He’s not up to talking coherently and Keith is the last person to be hearing his rants. He’s not sure how many of those ready alibis would hold up in court. 

It’s not long after that his pretense becomes a reality as he slips into restless, angry dreams. 

***

Logan wakes up, too early to do anything but roll over and go back to sleep, but his arm hangs down off the couch. 

And his hand rests on Veronica’s shoulder, tangled in her hair. 

He smiles as he closes his eyes again. 

***


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you crazy? Seriously, Logan? Did your brain dribble out of your ears in your sleep or something? What's wrong with you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** PG-13. Veronica's thoughts, not so racy.   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, ensemble (Mac, Wallace, Dick, Keith). Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things. Especially my soul.   
> **Wordcount:** 4,925.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** It's not surprising that she looks and feels like hell.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Veronica's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, chapter eight**  
*~*~*~*

Veronica's nose twitches. 

She scrunches her eyelids more tightly closed, even as she pulls herself up from the blissful murkiness of sleep to chase the scent of warm sugar. 

"Wakey wakey." 

Her mouth turns up into a lazy smile as her eyes reach past the slightly greasy bag of donuts being waved in her face to see Keith smiling gently down at her. 

"Hey." She blinks. "What time is it?"

"Early." He pulls the bag away. "But late enough for you to explain what's going on here."

A few quick blinks later and Veronica realizes where she is. Curled up on the floor among a tangle of pillows and blankets in front of the couch, with Logan's hand twisted through her hair and cupping her neck. 

"Huh."

Keith stops smiling. 

"You got anything better than that to say?"

 _Think fast, Veronica, and make it believable._

"Ummmm." _Faster than that, Mars._ "No?"

"Right." He nods. "Thought as much."

Softly, slowly, she begins unwinding her hair from Logan's fingers. They're long and lean and she likes the feel of them, all knobbly under the pads of her own fingers. 

"It's nothing." She's quick to add as she sits up. "I just... I wasn't sleeping."

"Hm." He's teasing now, she can tell by the way his eyes shine. "Could've fooled me."

She thinks about that, thinks about why she couldn't sleep in her own bed, staring up at the ceiling and counting all the spaces that weren't covered in little glow in the dark stars, like the kind that dotted the ceiling of her bedroom in the old house before... before...

Just before. 

Logan's still sleeping and she's really kind of stunned at how his face changes in sleep. It's all loose, slack and unfettered. She's read all the flowery descriptions in books describing how much younger people look when they're asleep, but she's never seen it. 

He's so young, it still surprises her, face smooth and child like. It makes her sad, really, to know that clarity and awareness will add the lines, the taut stretches of experience that make him wary of everyone and everything. 

"Sh." It's a quiet hum and she's not even sure if she's throwing it over her shoulder at Keith or at the figure lying face down on the couch. "Don't wake him up."

Her finger trails a line down the back of his neck, her nail rising and falling over the knobs of his spine, the sight and feel of his bare skin make her feel warm. 

It should be strange, she knows it, should be awfully uncomfortable touching someone so intimately in front of her father, knowing that he has to see, that he has to notice what she's doing. 

She wonders idly if Keith wonders what they've been doing. 

"I wasn't going to." Keith says, his voice calm and clear and just precise enough to make Veronica look up with a frown on her face. "We need to talk. You and I."

Oh, _crap._

"Really?" It's no coincidence that she chooses that moment to walk away, to leave Logan behind and make her way over to the table at the end of the kitchen bench. "What about?"

Keith gives her a knowing look, the one that tells her she's fooling no one but herself. 

"Dad..." She begins, but already knows it's not going to work. "... it's nothing."

Her stomach rolls around in agonizing circles and her fingers can only pick at the warm, sugary dough he places in front of her. 

"Veronica." His voice sounds tired, so old and worn down that she wants to close her eyes and block him out. "I'm your father, I love you. You can tell me anything and nothing will change that."

That's not the problem, that's never been the problem. 

"I know." 

God, she really hates it when her voice gets so small and weak like this. She hates it. It galls her, even now, but she can't do anything about it. Can't do anything but broadcast exactly how much 'nothing' it really isn't. 

"Do you?" Veronica really wishes he wouldn't sound so knowing, so unbelievably alert. "Do you really?"

Her fingers shake as she pulls the donut into little balls, squeezes them flat between her fingers and kneads them into weird, sticky shapes. She won't look up. 

"Do you know they've locked your statement?" 

Her breath catches. Of course she knows. At the time, sitting in the cold function room, blandly answering questions, she hadn't really cared, it didn't matter. The words had poured out and she'd listed everything. 

Yesterday, in the harsh light of the truth, she'd had to go over her statement. She'd done it only because she knew there'd be no trial. Cassidy was dead. They just needed proof enough to close the case. No trial meant no public viewing of the evidence. 

That doesn't change the fact that Keith has already asked once. And Keith Mars always finds a way. 

"Do you trust me?" 

It's a loaded question, they both know it. 

"More than I should." He finally answers. 

"Then trust me now." It's a statement, not a question, but she feels her voice rising anyway, feels the inflection that begs him. "Whatever happened, whatever you think happened, it was a long time ago."

She pushes her plate away and stands up. 

"There's nothing you can do about it now."

"Right." The look he gives her is pure hurt as he picks up her abandoned plate and empties the little dough balls into the bin, then slams it into the sink. "I've got more things I need to do at the courthouse. You and Logan have a wonderful day."

She can't let him walk out like that, brittle and edgy and wounded, she just can't. 

"Dad, please." He's bigger than her, so much bigger in every way. Taller, wider, stronger, louder, everything is bigger and the fact that he lets her stand in his way and intimidate him makes her love him more. "Promise me? Promise me you won't start looking for more answers until I'm ready?"

"Sweetie." His head falls to the side as his eyes scan her face, looking for something as he reaches up to cup her chin. "I just... I'm a dad, it's my job to worry."

She has to exhale then, a small breathy giggle of disbelief. 

"Worry? Yes. Try to access secure police documents? That's not in the normal father job description. I've checked."

"Can you blame me?" His thumb grazes over her cheek. "You're not exactly upholding your end of the normal daughter job description either."

"I'm fine." She promises him. "Trust me in this, okay?"

He looks straight at her, keeps her eyes locked to his. 

"I love you, Veronica, and I'll promise you." She knows the if is coming, she can see it clearly. "But only if you promise you'll tell me eventually."

She nods and he pulls her forward into a soft, gentle hug. 

"I love you too, Dad, you know?"

It echoes, the sound of the front door closing shut behind him. 

"You should tell him."

Veronica sighs and her teeth grind. 

"Don't you start." Her voice is tight and clipped, but she feels herself loosen and relax as she turns on her heels and walks to her bedroom. "Logan, I swear to god, I can't take it from you, too."

***

Her eyes are almost black as she studies them in the mirror, the skin puffy and so dark they look bruised. She touches the soft flesh under her eyelashes and frowns. 

She's tired. She hasn't been sleeping, but she has been crying. 

It's not surprising that she looks and feels like hell. She can smile all she likes out there, but in here with the harsh bright light reflecting off the tiles and the wide bathroom mirror staring back at her, she can see the weight of the last few days taking hold. 

She was supposed to be laughing with Wallace, developing embarrassing graduation photos that would haunt her from her father's work desk for the rest of her life, packing her suitcase for her trip to New York. 

Yeah, that trip is going to be a blast, she can tell. The flight alone will be awkward enough to kill them both as she and Keith sit squished into chairs too close to each other to escape, both not trying to mention things that are still too raw to talk about.

"Hey." Logan's voice is soft behind her. "I'm sorry."

She smiles into the mirror. 

"You're right, you know."

And it's a whole different brand of awkward with Logan. He's not searching for answers because he knows them all. Each and every one of them. She wishes he didn't, wishes he could look at her and not see broken pieces. 

"I'm sorry?" His hand slaps up to his chest and his chin falls open in mock surprise. "What? What did you just say?"

Wishes she could see him looking and not imagine that all he sees is broken pieces. 

"I will." She nods, a small confirmation. "I'll tell him. Soon. Maybe."

Her eyes flick forward again, looking at her own face, but she can still see his reflection watching her from behind her shoulder. His face is screwed up and it makes her belly tighten. 

"Veronica." She watches his hand come up and rake through his hair. "I know it's not easy, but..."

"What?" She glares, eyes flashing and her teeth close down hard on the inside of her cheek. "What the hell do you know, Logan? I'm not protecting me, here, I'm doing it for him!"

"Yeah." His whole body tightens, readies for a fight. It's physical, that snap to attention. "Because I've never hidden anything from a parent to protect them."

He knows everything, knows how to hit hardest with the fewest words, because she knows his answers as well.

"Logan." She feels her face fall slack with realization. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"God, Veronica." He runs his hand through his hair again. "What's wrong with our lives?"

It brings a small, hysterical little giggle out of her throat and it sounds bitter, even to her. 

"What isn't, Logan?" It's a challenge, thrown out at random and she wonders if he has an answer. "Name one thing that isn't."

"Us." 

The word hits her hard. 

Her cheeks burn, heat flooding them as he takes a step forward and looks at her. She can feel his eyes all over her skin, feels them seeing not the clothes she's wearing, but her body from last night. Exposed.

She rushes on to cover her nerves. 

"If you start talking epic again, I swear..."

But she doesn't know what she wants to swear, doesn't know exactly how difficult she's going to make it for him, because part of her wants him to do it again, to make some grand, sweeping declaration that seems to fix everything. 

Logan Echolls is a born romantic, but he's been groomed by the best, trained from a very early age. It was fed to him on the spoon that gave him his first strained vegetables, the notion that lives and loves are lived and lost in the span of two neat palatable hours, everything is wrapped up and nothing left to chance. No matter how far the hero falls, he can always be redeemed in the arms of his leading lady after a strongly worded, tear filled apology. 

What's learned, what's been drilled into him over the years is the begging, the desperate need to roll over and purr at every small trace of attention, the confusion between attention and affection, the craven bowing and scraping and self depreciation in the name of love and trust and acceptance. 

You don't pet this stray, straggly dog unless you want it following your every step. She knows it and it makes her bitter. It makes her hate Aaron and Lynn, and even Lilly a little if she admits it to herself, just that little bit more. 

"I don't know what I said." His eyes plead with hers. "But Veronica, whatever brought you back that morning, I meant it."

She doesn't look away. 

"I know." Something relaxes in his eyes and she wishes she could feel the same. "What are we doing, Logan?"

"Well." He folds his arm and leans against the door. "I'm standing here hoping you're going to get naked and step in that shower. Don't know what you're doing."

She laughs, there's nothing else to do. 

"You wish." 

The serious side of their conversation is obviously over, if it ever began. He's going to kill her, slowly, just by spreading her emotions clear out and playing with them. 

She's so confused. One minute he won't let go of her, the next he's pushing her away, and now he's back to making lewd suggestions. Why can't she ever have anything normal?

Just once?

"Well, yeah." He shrugs, eyes glinting. "It's pretty high on my wish list, actually. You. Naked. Soap. Hot water."

Her jaw sets. 

"If that's what you want. Fine."

It's not like she has anything to hide. He's the one that stopped things last night, the one who pushed her away. She'd been more than prepared to go through with it, even if she shouldn't have. Let him suffer the consequences.

Her eyes watch him in the reflection as she pulls the elastic out of her hair. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

She shucks her shirt off her shoulders and drops it to the floor. His hands stop moving. Cool air caresses the skin around her ribs, but she doesn't think that's what makes the gooseflesh pop all over her abdomen. It's certainly not the reason her nipples harden and her shoulders sizzle. Without blinking, she steps over to the shower and turns on the faucets, daring him to move. 

Her blood is pulsing at three times its normal speed. Surely that isn't healthy. 

His face is slack as she gives him a sweet smile and begins to undo the tie on her sweatpants. She has to turn away and hold her breath as she drops them to the floor, carefully stepping out of them. She's only got her underwear on and Logan... 

Is gone. 

She doesn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved when she sees the empty doorway. 

***

"You, Miss Mars." He glares when she finally steps back into the living room, dressed and drying her hair with a towel. "Are going to hell."

She laughs, a proper, belly deep laugh, for the first time in days.

"Don't blame me, Logan. This?" She waves her hand vaguely up and down her body. "Could have been all yours."

*** 

She thinks, maybe, they should stop where they are and not think about it anymore. That they should just cut their losses and not reach forward, stop putting their bare skinned hands into the flames and expecting anything other than blistering burns.

Maybe they should just stick to those two hateful, desperate words: _just friends._

Everything would be a lot simpler, easier, less raw. 

Her breath ratchets in through her nostrils, stretching her lungs out, pushing against his arms. They're sitting on the couch again and if they ever leave this apartment, she wonders where and how they'll be comfortable without it. 

"See a movie?" 

His fingers trail spidery patterns over her belly and she just looks at him with a raised brow. 

"We still need to go pick up your car?"

This time she adds a shake of her head. 

"What?" He sighs, a little burst of frustration. "I've gone through the list of possible things to do and, unless you want me to revisit that idea of you in the Swedish Maid outfit, it's your turn to choose something."

"Logan." She tries to stall for time. 

"I don't know." He screws his face up in pretend concentration. "I'm beginning to warm up to the idea of your hair in braids. Can you yodel?"

She doesn't know what to do, doesn't have any idea what's supposed to be procedure for something like this. They're bandying back and forth between awkward and comfortable, friends and then more. 

There's nothing that covers that middle ground, nothing that...

Her phone rings. 

"Veronica?"

"Mac!" She tries not to sound too relieved. "How are you? What's going on?"

"I was wondering... I mean..." The voice coming across the line still sounds small and lost. "I can't stay here, my parents are great, but I need to get out... and I don't know..."

"Sure. Of course." Veronica catches on quickly. "Come over. It's just me and Logan, we're not doing anything today. We could watch movies and just veg out."

Next to her, Logan raises his eyebrows and grins, spreading his hands out to emphasize the fact he made that suggestion first. She tells him to quit it with her eyes. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She keeps her voice calm. "Yes, really. Do you want us to come pick you up?"

"No." Relief floods Mac's voice. "That's okay, I'll be over soon."

Logan's eyes are soft when she turns to him, serious. 

"Is she okay?"

Veronica shrugs. 

"She says she is. I guess we'll see."

They sit facing each other, her knees turned to his, their postures mirrored. They don't know what they're doing, she's certain of this because she has no idea and in no way known to man does Logan know more than she does. 

"I was right." His face slides into smug. "I said movie first, you should have listened."

She has to smile. 

Her prescribed role in this little play is to meet his challenge, to return his utterly lame comment with something that has a little more bite. They'll snipe back and forth, each topping the other in their verbal sparring match until something breaks. 

And they'll end up either trying to kiss or kill each other. 

If he wants to change the rules, he needs to find a new game. 

***

"Popcorn." She suggests minutes later as she rummages through the cupboard. "People need popcorn when they watch movies."

"Movies." He tells her as he flicks through the DVD collection with a mock horrified look on his face. "People need movies when they watch movies."

She ignores him. 

"I could've sworn there was popcorn in here..." Maybe if she shifts the boxes around, again, a packet will magically appear. The snack fairy will put them there. "We can't have nothing."

The knock startles them both. 

"Does she live next door?" Logan stands. "I mean..."

"No." Veronica frowns as she moves to the door. "Unless she was already in her car when she called..."

The thought of Mac driving around by herself without a plan, a place to go, or a friend next to her makes Veronica hurt. But it's not Mac at the door when she answers it. The weekend comes flooding back to her in one rush and she can't breathe with it. 

"Wallace!" Her arms reach out and pull him in. "Oh, my god, Wallace."

In the background, she briefly registers the sound of Logan's phone ringing and the sight of him disappearing into her room. All she can focus on is the feel of Wallace's arms around her. 

"Hey." His hands soothe up and down her back. "It's alright. You're alright."

"You have no idea." Her lip trembles as she pulls back, so she shakes her head to clear her thoughts. "It was awful."

"You're a lightning rod, Mars." He grins, cheeks glowing with amusement, but she can feel the way his hand rests gently on her arm, feels the way he rubs circles on her skin. "You just attract trouble."

"I thought... I thought..." But she doesn't need to rehash that now and so she snaps back to reality. "How's Jackie? What happened?"

She sees him close up a little and that irks her. She feels the back of her teeth itch, it's surprisingly comforting, knowing that at least some things remain the same, even if it's just Jackie's treatment of Wallace. 

"She's staying in New York." He tells her. "And I'm staying here. She didn't give me a choice."

"Wow." It's a soft little whisper. "Harsh."

"Yeah." He watches her when he says it and she knows what that means, knows that when he drags the last syllables of his words it means there's something coming in the next ones. "She said she had to stay with her son."

"Her what?" And Veronica gives him the shock he's looking for, he's earned it with that news. "I'm sorry, her what?"

"Didn't you know?" Wallace smiles again as he pushes past her, into the apartment. "I thought you knew everything. You tracked her down and all."

"Only to her mom's." She offers lamely as she closes the door. "I wasn't looking for... god, Wallace."

"Yup." He flops down onto the couch. "I figure the old Mars drama magnet is rubbing off on me. I've gotta stop hanging out with you so much."

"Oh, ha ha." She rolls her eyes. "But you can't do that. Seriously. I know where you live. And I'll hunt you down if you try to run."

He's still smiling up at her, his eyes shining bright as he scans her up and down, but she knows that look. He's worried and concerned and she's obviously not playing the 'I'm fine' game as well as she thinks. 

"Really." He slumps further into the couch and she wonders exactly how he can make himself look so boneless as his arm drapes over the back, how he can defy physiology and the structure of his skeleton. "How are you? And don't lie to me, I'll know."

"Shaken." She tells him honestly, it's a serious answer, but she still can't help herself from giving a sly smile. "But not stirred."

"Veronica..." His voice is a warning as he glares at her. 

"No, really, I'm good, not great but good. You know? Besides, I had cake." Her hand gestures at the server that's still on the bench. Untouched. "Best damned comfort there is. And Logan's here."

At the sound of his name, Logan makes an appearance. There's something wrong with the way he awkwardly walks into the room, something hesitant and nervous and he keeps throwing her wary looks as though she's about to do some serious physical harm. 

Her eyes narrow. 

"Hey man." Wallace nods. 

Logan nods back, but he keeps his eyes on her. 

"Logan?" She hears the arch in her voice. "Who was on the phone?"

"Uh." His hand drags through his hair. "A friend?"

He takes a step back, actually takes a step back away from her. 

"Logan?" She tries again, sugar dripping from her words. "What friend?"

"Um." It's a diversion, stalling for time as he takes the largest breath of his life, before letting it all out in one long, rushed word. "Possiblydickandhemightbecomingovernow."

Veronica stares, open mouthed for ten whole seconds. 

Then she blinks. 

"Are you crazy?" She doesn't know how she's remaining so calm. "Seriously, Logan? Did your brain dribble out of your ears in your sleep or something? What's wrong with you?"

"What?" Wallace sits up straighter. "I don't..."

"He's cool, Veronica." Logan protests. "I told him you'd be okay..."

She tries to breathe. 

"You invited Dick Casablancas here?" He only nods once and she glares. "When you knew Mac was on her way over?"

He smiles his scruffy little boy smile that he thinks is cute and irresistible and is really only frustrating. 

"Yes?"

"What?" She demands. "What made you think that was a good idea? What made you think I'd be okay with it?"

Across the room, she can see Wallace's eyes flicking back and forth between them, left to right, right to left, like a tennis match. 

"Because I'm asking you to be. Please?" Logan holds his hands out to her, palms up, shrugging his shoulders, and she knows he's being serious. "He's hurting, too, you know. He's my friend and he needs help, too."

Veronica thinks about that, thinks about Dick losing his brother, about learning all the things that must have come out in the last two days. Not even Dick could hold up against that. 

"Fine." She bites the word out and holds up her finger. "But he pulls one thing, just one, with Mac and you're the one that's going to have to kick him out. Capiche?"

Logan breathes a sigh of relief. 

"He'll be good. I promise."

"Kick. Him. Out." She spells it out on her fingers, just in case he missed the point. "Just one thing. All the way out. I mean it."

"Man." Wallace chuckles to himself. "You two are like an old married couple."

Even Wallace Fennel, awesome baller and self confessed tux womanizer, is not impervious to the twin glares of her and Logan as they both turn at the same time. He shrinks back into the couch and tries to smile. 

"So... got any snacks?"

***

"I don't believe you did that."

"Veronica, I said I was sorry."

"You think that's gonna cut it, man? I thought you knew her."

"It's Dick Casablancas! Co-creator of the 'All our school friends died, let's throw a 'life's short' party'. How is he going to be sensitive?"

"Excuse me? There's something wrong with honoring the dead now?"

"Oh, forget Dick, how are YOU going to be sensitive?"

"Chill, guys, come on."

"What's your problem, Veronica? I told you, he just needs some friends right now. Are you trying to tell me your friends are more important than mine?"

"Yes!"

"Wait... what?"

"Oh, come on, Logan, I can't stand Dick and you know it."

"You know, that's gonna put a real dent on my reputation if that gets out."

"Wallace, if that cough becomes a giggle, chuckle, snort or anything resembling laughter, I will rethink my policy about you not being able to die. Painfully."

"Hey, I didn't say a thing!"

"You're not being fair. You could try to show a little compassion, Dick was worried about you."

"I seriously doubt that."

"He was."

"Dick? The surfer dude with the shaggy do, right? Can he even spell compassion?"

"See? Ha. Even Wallace knows Dick better than that."

"Give it a rest. Okay? He's not evil."

"He's the bastard child of Satan. I have that on good authority, by the way."

"Whose authority?"

"Some chick in the hall? But, really, you have to admit, it makes a lot of sense when you think about it."

"Veronica, I'm asking you, please, for me? Can you just be nice?"

"I will if he will."

***

There's another knock and Veronica has barely a second to consider the cost of a doorbell before she dismisses it, knowing that a high pitched peal of sound would annoy her more than the repeated taps against the door. 

"Hey Mac." She tries to smile reassuringly. "How are you doing?"

Mac looks like she hasn't slept since Veronica left her with her parents two nights ago. Her eyes switch from looking at Veronica, to looking away. She knows this look. Mac's eyes are bright, a little glassy, and terrified of anyone asking about the truth. 

"Fine. I'm good." Comes the hurried reply, then Mac frowns. "What? You're hiding something."

"Me?" Veronica tries to smile. "Nothing. Heh. Not a thing. Come in, come in. We're all just..."

"All?" Mac queries as she steps inside. "We're all who?"

"Just Logan. And Wallace." Veronica nods. "And maybe later, possibly, Dick."

Mac turns and stares. 

"Dick?" Her eyes narrow at Veronica. "Dick Casablancas is coming here?"

She tries to shrink, to implode in upon herself, to sink into and through the floor. It doesn't quite work. 

"Yes?" But pointing straight at Logan might. "Blame him! It's all his fault."

There's another knock on the door and Veronica feels her stomach drop.

From the look on everyone else's face, she's not alone. Logan shuffles Mac over to the couch next to Wallace as Veronica turns back to the door. 

"Ronnie." Dick pushes his way in. "This is where you live?"

Veronica rolls her eyes. 

"For nearly three years now."

She's not sure what she expects from him, but she realizes she's already steeling herself for an attack, already throwing down bricks and mortar in attempt to protect herself from him. 

It's a habit she can't break out of easily. 

"Right." He nods and it's not the Dick she's known for several years, not even the one she knew before Lilly died. He's nervous. "Ronnie? I..."

He doesn't know what to say, doesn't have a stupid comment or offensive joke. He's not trying to be the center of attention or to cruise his way through a crowd. He is, she realizes, suddenly vulnerable. 

This, she thinks, is the new definition of awkward. 

"Dick." Logan jumps to save them both. "You're here."

"Yeah." Comes the reply as he thrusts something at her. "And I brought snacks. You know, for the movies."

"Dick." Veronica's eyebrows raise as she takes it, she's sure she should be surprised. "This isn't a snack, it's a bottle of vodka."

"I've also got Jack Daniels." He offers a bag that clinks. "Jose Cuerva? Jim Beam?"

Her nose wrinkles. 

"All your favorite men?"

"You bet." He nods. 

"It's barely even midday." Veronica tells him firmly. "We're not drinking."

"I am." 

Veronica, Logan and Dick all turn in surprise when Mac pushes through and grabs the bottle from her hand. 

***


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thou... whoa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R (very light, but sexual references and a few naughty words).   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, ensemble. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things.   
> **Wordcount:** 6,607.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** They're about five seconds away from pulling each other's hair and fighting for Chinese Burn authority as words fly around the room.  
>  **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Logan's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part nine**  
*~*~*~*

Logan's not sure. He's never had it, not really, so there's no way to be strictly certain, but he's fairly sure that Veronica and Keith are easily the sickliest, sweetest father daughter combination on the face of the planet. 

At least he hopes so. The world just isn't ready for this kind of twee en masse. There has to be some sort of law against it, especially in large doses. 

It's entirely too early to stomach this sort of thing. But he knows they need it, time between themselves, just the two of them. Tomorrow they'll be leaving for New York, he tries not to think of it as them leaving him, and that's a trip that couldn't have come at a better time. 

_Veronica, weightless in her grief._

He waits for her to explain herself and, to tell the truth, he's eager enough to hear the story of how she came to sleep on the floor next to him. _Weightless, exhausted, broken._ Wants to hear it in her own words. 

"Um. No?"

Not that he expects to, that would be easy. 

He listens to the soft banter between Veronica and Keith, but he stays still so he can feel Veronica's hands cover his, feel her peel his fingers from her hair. The way her skin caresses his, gently, as if she doesn't want to let him go. 

There's something a little bit _wrong_ about playing dead just to remain close to someone, staying still to keep them there with him. He's the last person that needs that explained to him. 

He remembers her sleeping over his legs, remembers holding and soothing her and wonders why neither of them can be this needy when they're both awake and conscious. Wonders why they have to be surreptitious about it. Why they can't just look at each other and _ask_ for it. 

"Sh." He hears her whisper. "Don't wake him up."

Of course not. 

Logan has to stop himself purring out loud when she runs her finger down the back of his neck. He'll gladly lie here forever if she promises to never stop, to keep touching him like that. Like she cares, like he's something precious. 

"We need to talk." Keith's voice says. "You and I."

That does it. Logan knows he's not moving now, knows Veronica wouldn't want him to. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't be awake for this, it's something she should do alone. Or with him, if she wants, but not something he should be overhearing like this. 

He feels guilty. 

"It's nothing." She says. 

The guilt subsides for frustration. It doesn't matter that he's going to hear it, because there's nothing to hear. He can already sense the barriers she's building up. 

Veronica loves whole heartedly. She's fiercely loyal. She gives and gives and only takes when she knows she can. Her one flaw is her inability to trust with the same vigor. 

She trusts Keith, probably more than anyone else in her life, but she won't trust him with this. Logan knows she doesn't trust him with several things, many things, things he wants to break down and discover, but leaves her to her defenses in the hopes she'll leave him to his. 

There are a multitude of people that surround Veronica and each of them hold separate parts of her life.

She refuses to combine them. 

"Do you trust me?"

There's that word again and even Logan knows how delicate the answer is to her. It's not a word she throws around lightly. 

"More than I should."

"Whatever happened, whatever you think happened, it was a long time ago."

Their voices don't rise, they don't shout and yell and they don't throw plates across the room until china shatters into the rug and the maid spends two hours scrubbing the remains of dinner off the wall. 

"There's nothing you can do about it now."

But they hurt each other with soft barbs aimed well. 

"You and Logan have a wonderful day."

It's that moment that Logan can't stop the intake of breath. He hopes that neither of them heard it, that they don't realize he's been listening. Because buried deep in the hurt of Keith's voice, the disappointment that Veronica is pushing him away yet again, is something Logan knows well. 

Keith is jealous. 

"Dad, please." 

As Veronica stops Keith walking out, Logan thinks about their words. 

He wonders if, that altogether defining question of his life, if he had stood in front of Lynn towards the end with the same crack in his voice and said _Mom, please_ she would have cared enough to stay. 

He knows he never would have begged Aaron for anything. 

The door closes and Logan can't leave it like that. 

There's no use pretending he's still asleep, he can't stay quiet. She needs to do anything to keep Keith there, to keep the only father left in Neptune worth keeping.

"You should tell him."

She doesn't even blink when he speaks and he has to wonder if she knew he was listening and why she would let him inside such a private moment. 

"Don't you start." Her anger is welcome and familiar, he basks in it as he turns onto his back and stretches. "I swear to god, Logan, I can't take it from you, too."

*** 

It's the intimacy that he loves, just him and Veronica in the apartment, the walls closing in on them. He doesn't know how to explain that to her, how to contrast the empty, hollow halls of everywhere he's ever known, to the closeness that comes of small spaces. 

That's where he takes her, he realizes suddenly, where he's always been drawn. Kissing her throat and making her giggle, making her laugh in the back seat of his car, of her car, to her apartment, even the girls' bathroom of the school. 

He's always on show in the open spaces, in the halls where everyone can see, it's always for other people. He flashes, briefly, on taking a nervous Hannah into the Bounce House at the carnival, not just to hide, but also to breathe away from the pressure of limitlessness. 

It's not the most pleasant of memories and thinking it now makes him feel especially guilty, much like most of his memories of Hannah. So he concentrates on Veronica, of the feel of her near him, even if she isn't in the same room. If anyone heard him like this, they'd probably back away. He knows how crazy he sounds, thinking of locking the door, trapping her in with him, always being like this. 

Hearing her movements through the walls. 

Knowing with each step what she's doing and where she is. 

Logan doesn't know how to tell her how addictive that is. 

She's in her bathroom now, standing still, has been for too long. And he has a flash, too fast and too hard to ignore, even if he dismisses it seconds later. 

Veronica is many things, she's been a thousand different things to Logan, but he's never had to worry about her. He's never had to force open the bedroom door to make sure she's breathing through the stench of alcohol that rots her breath, the sickly sweet aftertaste of valium popped like candy. 

He's still relieved to find her standing in front of the mirror, doesn't ever want to think about a day when she won't be there _Give me the gun, Veronica_ , he watches her frown at her reflection. Watches her touch the bags under her eyes. 

She moves slow, as if in afterthought, as if she's moving underwater like the rest of his lost ladies. 

"Hey." He's not sure where the words are coming from, he just wants her to react, to look at him and do something in real time. "I'm sorry." 

Her smile is sad and small and it's completely worth it. 

"You're right, you know."

A small part of him can't help whooping with glee. Veronica Mars admitted he was right about something, willingly and to his face. It's a sad sort of triumph, but it's worth building on. 

"I'm sorry? What? What did you just say?"

He's hoping for a glint of humor, an amused roll of her eyes, a shake of her head. The soft, weary movements of someone who knows all his tricks and loves him anyway. 

"I will." But she's not playing, she's standing firmly on the line of open discussion and it makes him suddenly nervous. "I'll tell him. Soon. Maybe."

Yeah, he thinks, right. Her eyes are open and honest in the mirror and they watch him relentlessly. She's too perceptive for her own good. Usually, however, she uses it with other people. Never with herself. He needs to get her to see.

"Veronica." Now is the time, he thinks, if she wants serious and not easy deflection. "I know it's not easy, but..."

"What?" The response is immediate and he blinks in surprise at the venom in her voice. She wanted serious, but not his kind, only hers, on her terms. "What the hell do you know, Logan? I'm not protecting me, here, I'm doing it for him!"

With those words, it hits him, the real reason she hasn't told Keith. Not because she doesn't trust him with it, obviously she does, but because she's afraid for him. 

He's been there. 

He'd seen his mother's eyes flinch at the sight of her son's back. He cried in her arms once, when he was nine, after she'd returned from a three month movie shoot. There was a lot of yelling that night. 

The next morning everyone had been quiet and acted happy, but Logan saw the awkward way she moved and the heavy makeup that didn't quite cover the bruises on her neck. He'd watched in horrified fascination the way in which Lynn Echolls, famed actress, couldn't stop the fear in her eyes when her husband leaned over to kiss her cheek in front of the morning fans. She'd spent the rest of the day getting drunk. 

Logan hadn't asked for her help once after that. Lynn hadn't made another movie either. 

"Yeah." He hardens and has to ask himself if that's what she wanted in the first place. "Because I've never hidden anything from a parent to protect them."

If he's hard, if he's pushing her, then she has no choice but to erect the same blocks that kept her going before. He won't do that, he tells himself that over and over again as he breathes deeply and tries to calm himself down. He won't play her villain right now. 

"Logan." The look on her face makes him instantly sorry he'd even thought it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

He hears her voice last summer, desperate and scratched out as she tried to tell him why she couldn't see him anymore. Why he was too dangerous to be around. Why she couldn't stay and be the buffer against all his hatred and vengeance, because she wasn't strong enough to take it. 

He thinks he might finally understand. 

"God, Veronica." He can't stand still like this, can't be raw under her gaze. "What's wrong with our lives?"

It rocks him, that little broken laugh she gives. 

"What isn't, Logan?" His brain is already racing through, trying desperately to find an answer because she needs one. "Name one thing that isn't."

He finally comes to rest on the only thing that counts. 

"Us."

It doesn't even matter that it's a lie, that the two of them together are probably the most wrong they'll ever get. He steps forward and doesn't really know why, only that he needs to make her forget the conversation before she even begins to dissect his statement. 

He can't take examining the remains of them just yet. 

"If you start talking epic again, I swear..."

Reason #452 they shouldn't be together, he thinks. Just another time one of them reached out and was torn down by the other. One of many. 

If he could, he'd rewind that night, stop himself from drinking so much, drinking himself numb. Numb from the sight of her standing there, gliding through the suite, untouchable as always. Perfect, as always. 

He knows what he thinks when he lets himself get morose and melancholy, he knows what he believes, what he's come to think of as _fact_ inside his own head, and he can only begin to guess how much of that tripe came out in his little speech to her. 

Whatever he'd said, however he'd said it, it had brought her back the next morning. Whatever he'd said, however he'd said it, was enough for her to look betrayed and gutted by Kendall in his suite. 

Was enough for him to kick himself time and time again whenever he thought of it. 

"I don't know what I said." The words are dangerous, true as they are, teetering on a knife edge and ready to fall on either side. "But Veronica, whatever brought you back that morning, I meant it."

Please, his little inner voice begs her, please understand. 

"I know." Her eyes soften in the mirror and he finds it easier to breathe. "What are we doing, Logan?"

His breath is given and stolen in the same second. Only Veronica. Only she can do that to him, make him flay himself, lay himself out bare for her, then give him a reprieve, only to drag him back down again. 

She has to ask the one question he doesn't have an answer to. He wants to say they're starting again, starting fresh. He wants to say they're picking up where they left off. 

Either answer is foolish. There is no starting again for either of them. They're too similar like that, too addicted to nurturing their scars, hiding to lick their wounds in secret. And neither of them want to pick up what they left behind last summer. 

Veronica watches him, as though she's expecting him to have the answer, as if he'll have some big speech that solves everything that's wrong between them. 

Logan is suddenly sick of putting band aids over mortal wounds, trawling his cache of quick and easy fixes. He wants something deeper, wants it hard enough to make his mouth dry, and doesn't know how to ask for it. 

"Well." But he knows how to do this, how to clear the air. "I'm standing here hoping you're going to get naked and step in that shower. Don't know what you're doing."

She laughs and he breathes out, the easier to drink it back in. 

"You wish." 

"Well, yeah." He shrugs, eyes glinting. "It's pretty high on my wish list, actually. You. Naked. Soap. Hot water."

It was supposed to be a joke, a light hearted comment to bring them both up and out of territory too rocky to coast through unharmed. He realizes his mistake instantly, his one glaring and foolish error, as his own words cast images in his brain. 

Veronica. Naked. Skin flushed with heat. Hot to the touch. Wet and slick. Her panting under him. 

His balls tighten just thinking about it. 

If she knows what's good for her, hell, if she knows what's good for him as well, she'll roll her eyes and make some scathing comment that will snap him back to reality. 

"If that's what you want." Her eyes challenge him, as if she knows what he's thinking. "Fine."

She doesn't back down. God help them both, she grins at him instead. The look in her eyes clearly set to: Game On, Logan Echolls. 

He has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself moaning out loud when she takes off her shirt and steps towards the shower. He can't think about the feel of that skin under his hands and tongue, the fact that there's probably still traces of his saliva streaked with his fingerprints somewhere on her, that she'd probably taste the same. 

Maybe warmer, with hours of sleep trapped in her skin. 

He can't think about it, he can't. 

Her nipples tighten and he has to swallow. 

_Think unsexy thoughts,_ his desperate little inner voice screeches, high pitched and insistent, _think unsexy thou...whoa_

Steam billows out of the shower and makes little wisps of her hair curl and stick to the base of her neck. 

He's not going to let her win. 

She turns away and he allows his eyes to slide down the line of her back. Delicate bones dot her skin, pushing up in hypnotizing patterns through the curtains of her muscles. 

He can't let her win. 

Her hips twist a little as she pushes her sleep worn track pants down her legs. Veronica is petite, but her legs look long. Slim, solid and entirely touchable. His fingers itch to run up the insides of her calves. 

Now way in hell is she going to win. 

There's a little gap between the hem of her panties and the small of her back, a small space just big enough to slip his hand through. He clutches the doorframe and tells himself that it's nothing, nothing at all. 

It doesn't bother him, it doesn't, not in the slightest...

He pushes hard against the frame, pushes himself back and away from the door. 

She wins. 

***

Logan spends the next ten minutes willing his cock down, wishing he was somewhere like his own house or the suite where he could take matters into his own hand, so to speak, and spend a good hour relieving frustrations. 

He doubts that either Veronica or Keith will appreciate him doing that in the middle of their living room with Backup watching. 

She comes out of her room, fresh faced and perky, rubbing her hair dry with a towel and he feels himself rise all over again. 

Fuck. 

"You, Miss Mars." He declares with a clenched jaw. "Are going to hell."

She laughs again. This time it's not nervous, it's not bitter and broken, it's deep and honest and it takes over her whole face when she does it. Her eyes light up and she grins as her right eyebrow rises delicately. 

"Don't blame me, Logan. This?" Her hand gestures up and down the body he's trying not to remember. "Could have been all yours."

Yes, hell. The darkest, most vicious level of hell reserved for Veronica Mars after moments like this. Like he needs to be reminded of his own stupid morals right now. 

It makes it worse that she's right. 

***

His shower is not as quick and, most likely, not as hot as hers was. 

He's surprised, really, by the astuteness of Keith. The bag that he'd packed had been full of clothes he wore regularly and needed most often. 

It was the little things that mattered and he wonders how Keith, who barely seemed to notice him in the last year apart from glaring at him over Veronica and glaring at him over a stack of ruined evidence tapes, could know him and his tastes better than a bunch of maids who saw him every day. The clothes they used to set aside for him had been laughable. 

Then again, that hadn't really mattered in the last few months, because a hotel suite with Duncan and later, by himself, hadn't really afforded him much time with anyone who cared or was even paid to notice such things. 

They settle on the couch and he begins to dream about a small, close walled little abode with nothing but a king sized bed and a comfortable couch. Nothing but him and Veronica. 

The thought scares him a little. Actually, it scares him a lot. 

He can't be domestic. 

"What shall we do?" He nudges her head with his chin. "We've got all day. No cops, no reports to make, nothing."

She shrugs as an answer. 

Logan starts listing possible activities as they sit curled up into each other and she negates each and every single one of them. Just for fun, he throws in a few incredibly unlikely scenarios. One of which might involve a school girl's uniform and a mahogany desk, but he's not sure, because he knows that trap and refuses to listen to his own words meant to torment a reaction out of her. 

He's fairly sure she doesn't notice and he wonders where she is, really. 

So he tickles the skin of her stomach to bring her back. 

"We still need to go pick up your car?"

It's a sudden suggestion, out of the blue, and he feels the shudder go through her before she shakes her head. 

"What?" At least she's here with him. "I've gone through the list of possible things to do and, unless you want me to revisit that idea of you in the Swedish Maid outfit, it's your turn to choose something."

"Logan..."

He needs to stop doing whatever he's doing to make her voice do that. It's torture. That, or he needs to stop acting the white knight and stop saying no to her. 

"I don't know." Don't think about what would happen if you stopped saying no, Echolls. "I'm beginning to warm up to the idea of your hair in braids. Can you yodel?"

Yeah, yodeling isn't going to get him into any trouble at all. Not even slightly. It's a lot better than picturing her in an absurdly stiff frilly dress that spreads out to midway down her thighs, her legs clad in bright stockings as her breasts pour out of a clingy, tight bustier type shirt... 

Dammit. 

Her phone rings and he knows why he's breathing a sigh of relief, but he's fairly sure she wasn't thinking the same thing, so hers is a puzzle. 

"Mac!" She breathes into the phone when she brings it to her ear, pushing against him as she sits up straight. "How are you? What's going on?"

He watches the curtain fall down, the lost little girl goes back into hiding and the brave little toaster comes out to play. When she begins suggesting Mac come around to watch movies, it makes him grin. 

That's his idea, dammit. 

The way Veronica relaxes against him again makes him relax as well. He's still not too sure what happened back at the hotel, but he knows it has to have been ugly and he knows that if Mac weren't dealing, then Veronica would show it, even as she makes plans. 

"Is she okay?"

"She says she is." The worried tone in her voice is familiar and he wonders if she knows she does the same thing, insists to everyone that she's fine when they all know different. "I guess we'll see."

***

It's not that he doesn't like her and Keith's taste in movies, it's just that he knows how much she hates not being prepared. She's already freaking out about not having any damned popcorn and he's fairly sure that neither he nor Mac will be whining about the lack of it today. 

Needling her about having no decent movies just makes her frustration boil closer to the surface. In a fun way, of course. 

She ignores him and that's how he knows he's getting to her. 

It's only been a few minutes, five at the most, since Veronica ended the call with Mac, so when the knock comes, they're both surprised. He realizes, suddenly, that he has absolutely no idea where Mac even lives. 

"Does she live next door?" It's entirely possible, but highly unlikely. "I mean..."

How else could she get there so fast?

"No." Veronica frowns, confused. It's a little comforting to know he's not alone. "Unless she was already in her car when she called..."

But it's not Mac, of course it's not Mac. It's Wallace. 

Logan feels petty to even consider resenting the fact that the small little world between himself, Veronica and Keith is suddenly shifting and growing. 

His own phone rings somewhere beside the couch and he digs it out, glancing briefly at the caller ID before leaving Veronica and Wallace alone. Their obviously emotional and much needed reunion doesn't need to be interrupted by this. 

"Dick?" He whispers into the phone, strangely worried that Veronica might hear and it would be akin to being caught cheating. "Man, you okay? What's up?"

"No, man, no." The voice that comes through the phone isn't Dick, not the Dick that Logan knows. "I'm pretty far from okay."

"What's wrong?" 

The instant he says it, he wants to kick himself. What kind of a stupid question is that?

"The cops..." Dick starts, but has to stop, Logan thinks he hears a swallow. "They're tearin' the place apart. I gotta get out. I can't stay here."

Logan finds himself looking at a framed photo of Veronica and Lilly, sitting on her shelf amid the organized chaos of her life. His fingers push at the edges of it. 

"Calm down, okay?" He says. "Do you know anywhere...?"

"I don't know." Dick all but whines and all he can hear is hysteria bubbling underneath the surface. "There's no one, you know? I keep... I keep..."

A pause and a rush of breath. 

"I keep seein' him everywhere, Logan. He's not _gone_."

Logan doesn't bother asking which he, he's already used up his idiotic question quota for this conversation. His eyes scan the shelves as he tries to think of something, anything really, other than what his brain is telling him he should do. 

"Have you talked...?"

"To who?" Dick doesn't even let him finish the question. "I told you, there's no one here but cops and reporters. Kendall keeps looking at me with these big frightened eyes, like _I_ was the one... I swear, I can't stand it."

He finds what he doesn't know he's looking for, another frame, swirly silver metal surrounding his own face next to Veronica, both of them smiling. He doesn't remember when it was taken, can't remember when they were both happy at the same time, and the thought makes him sad. 

"Come over."

The words are out of his mouth before he can think about them. 

"Thanks, dude, really." It's a rush of relief. "I was this close to drinking myself into a coma. Where are you?"

Logan knows it's not an empty threat, even as he tries to calculate Dick's alcohol tolerance and the amount it would take to make it happen. 

"Veronica's?"

There's a pause and the voice that follows is even quieter. 

"You're at Ronnie's? Yeah, of course you are. Man... I don't..."

"She's okay." He rushes to lie. "I told you, she's fine."

"But _duuuuuuuuuuuuude..._ "

Logan closes his eyes and leans his head against a shelf. Dick's right. On the rapidly dwindling list of people Veronica doesn't want to and shouldn't ever see again, Dick is probably right up there. At the top. Written in bright, sparkly letters and underscored heavily. 

Twice. 

Hell, everyone is right, which also makes everyone wrong. 

He knows that he shouldn't ask Dick over, but he knows that he can't leave Dick alone. He knows that Veronica is hurting, but that she also doesn't want others to go through the same thing or worse. He knows that it hurt Dick a lot more than he'll ever let on just to ask this one simple favor. 

"Come on over. We’re just watching movies." He says finally, not leaving any wiggle room for argument. "But the same rules apply as last year."

"Yeah." Dick agrees quietly. "Be nice to your girlfriend."

The phone goes dead seconds before he can whisper that Veronica's not his girlfriend, not really. At least, not that they've talked about. They really should talk, Logan thinks, because if she isn't his girlfriend, then the whole making out on the couch, strip teasing thing they've got going is highly inappropriate. 

His phone rings while he's still holding it. 

"Dude, where does Ronnie live?"

Logan smiles, just a little. 

"Don't call her Ronnie, she hates when you call her that."

"No man." Dick argues. "You hate when I call her that. 'Cause she won't let you do it any more. She doesn't care what I do."

He hates that Dick is right and lets his fingers trace the slightly unfamiliar patterns of Veronica's smiling face in the frame as he gives the address and directions. 

Just as he's coming back to the land of the living, to face the music and possibly his firing squad, he hears Veronica waxing lyrical about that damned cake again. 

He really needs to find a bear. 

"Hey man." 

Wallace nods and Logan nods back. He hasn't spent all that much time with him, but from what he's seen, Wallace is cool. And he's good for Veronica, any fool can see that. 

It irks him that Wallace has been better for Veronica than he has. It irks him even further that he has no one to blame for that but himself. 

"Logan?" Just the tone in her voice is enough to tip him off that she suspects something. "Who was on the phone?"

"Uh" _Nobody, just the brother of the person who tried to kill you, your dad and succeeded in killing eight other people, blowing up a plane and making the last few years of your life hell. Just him._ "A friend?"

The flash over her eyes is too knowing and he steps back. 

"Logan?" She tries again. "What friend?"

"Um." _Spit it out, Echolls_. "Possiblydickandhemightbecomingovernow."

Veronica stares at him, stunned, and he can see the wordless way her jaw works to control itself. If looks could kill, Logan thinks, Veronica would be a lonely, lonely woman. 

"Are you crazy?" Well, that's better than he expected. "Seriously, Logan? Did your brain dribble out of your ears in your sleep or something? What's wrong with you?"

He's not sure what she's told Wallace, but he seems confused and he doesn't have the time to spell it out. He has damage control right in front of him. 

"He's cool." Logan insists. "I told him you'd be okay."

Possibly not the winning argument he thought it was, but he still needs to stay strong if he's going to get through to her. 

"You invited Dick Casablancas here?" She barely waits for his nod and he can see the anger in her eyes. Not that it's a big surprise, he was expecting it. "When you knew Mac was coming over?"

Oh. 

Oh, fuck a duck, yes. Mac. He knew he'd been forgetting something and he could just kick himself now. It’s really too late to do anything. He can’t exactly call Dick and tell him to turn the car around. 

Time to bring out the big guns. Logan smiles, an impish little smirk that he knows bugs the crap out of her, but also makes her soft. 

"Yes?"

Well, maybe not always. 

"What? What made you think this was a good idea? What made you think I'd be okay with it?"

That's a fairly good question and he doesn't really have an answer.

Except one. 

"Because I'm asking you to be. Please?" He's going to go straight to hell for pulling the emotional blackmail shit on her right now, but so be it. "He's hurting too, you know. He's my friend and he needs help, too."

He sees the very second his words hit home, sees her eyes soften and her jaw loosen. 

"Fine." And he has to stop himself grabbing her right then and kissing her. "But he pulls one thing, just one with Mac and you're the one that's going to have to kick him out. Capiche?"

Just on the merits of that word alone he knows it's going to be alright. She doesn't ever slip into accents if she's truly uncomfortable. As she keeps spelling out her misgivings, Logan steps closer to her, agreeing to everything she says. 

"Man." He'd almost forgotten Wallace was there. "You two are like an old married couple."

And here Logan thought nobody had a greater talent than him of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

***

Logan and Wallace make small talk as Veronica's eyes flicker nervously between them and the door. At least, he assumes it's polite small talk, he's fairly certain not even Wallace could be that interested in past basketball games of a high school they all just graduated from. 

But, _what did you do over the weekend?_ just isn't going to cut it. 

Veronica gets up without a word and begins pawing through the cupboard again. 

"Would you sit down?" Logan asks, hearing the note of frustration in his voice. "If they get hungry, we'll order out or something."

She spins to face him and he can see she's still angry. 

"I don't believe you did that."

"Veronica." He stands to meet her. "I said I was sorry."

And so the argument begins again, for the fourth time in ten minutes. Quick, brief flashes of anger and harsh words, followed by him pleading and her softening. 

Spiced up with a few of Wallace's sarcastic comments. 

If he weren't so nervous, Logan would appreciate them. 

"Are you trying to tell me your friends are more important than mine?"

The question comes out of nowhere and he's surprised at himself for asking it. He's not sure he wants an answer, either, judging by the thoughtful look that comes over her face. 

"Yes."

"Wait..." It's not like he wasn't expecting that answer, but it still stuns him, short and sharp as it is. "What?"

"Oh, come on, Logan." Veronica rolls her eyes. "I can't stand Dick and you know it."

Logan bites his cheek and tries to wait it out, knowing if he's patient Wallace will take the ball and run with it. But he can't stop himself, can't help the comment. 

Not when she hands it to him on a silver platter like that. 

"You know." One party cocky, one part mock wounded as he crosses his arms and leans against the bench. "That's gonna put a real dent on my reputation if that gets out."

She huffs, nostrils flaring. 

He can see the spark in her eyes, the last piece of humor left standing as she battles herself for it. There's a comment, some jagged piece of snark waiting just for him on the tip of her tongue, but instead she turns to Wallace and stops his attack before it begins. 

Logan's left just a little bit disappointed. 

"You're not being fair." If snark won't work, emotional pulls will. "You could try to show a little compassion. Dick was worried about you."

One thing Veronica can never resist being is the bigger man. 

"I seriously doubt that."

Okay, he thinks, almost never then. 

"He was."

They're about five seconds away from pulling each other's hair and fighting for Chinese Burn authority as words fly around the room. 

"He's not evil."

"He's the bastard child of Satan." Veronica declares with absolute certainty. "I have that on good authority, by the way."

"Whose authority?" He challenges. 

"Some chick in the hall?" She shrugs carelessly. "But, really, you have to admit, it makes a lot of sense when you think about it."

"Veronica." He's back to begging again. "I'm asking you, please, for me? Can you just be nice?"

She pouts, her jaw set in a stubborn line. 

"I will if he will."

***

"Hey Mac." For all his bluster, Logan really does care. So he watches from his place by the couch as Veronica lets her in. "How are you doing?"

He sees Veronica frown. 

"I'm fine." The words are jittery and sound as if they're coming three times as fast as they should be. "What? You're hiding something."

There had to be a reason she was friends with Veronica and Logan knows it's the quick, intelligent focus the girl has, even in the middle of grief, the ability to plow through all the bull shit. 

"Me?" Veronica lies. "Nothing. Heh. Not a thing. Come in, come in. We're all just..."

"All?" Quick, to the point, and not about to take any evasive crap. Logan likes her already, even if she looks too small to belong to the energy that bustles in with her voice. "We're all who?"

"Just Logan." He nods his head in acknowledgement as Veronica calls their names like a teacher doing roll call. "And Wallace. And maybe later, possibly, Dick."

A very guilty, nervous teacher. 

"Dick?" Mac's nerves are suddenly replaced with surprised disbelief and anger. "Dick Casablancas is coming here?"

“Yes?”

Veronica looks like she’d rather be back in the middle of high school. Nak… 

_Jesus Christ, Logan, stop thinking that word. Stop it now._

“Blame him!” Veronica points straight at Logan and he flushes a guilty red before he cottons on to what she’s saying. “It’s all his fault.”

He’s just about ready to get into the debate whose fault it is or isn’t when there’s another knock. He doesn’t need Veronica to say anything, he sees it in Mac’s face. 

That sudden drop of the act, the blanch that makes her look ill all of a sudden. 

“C’mon.” Logan hooks his hand into her elbow and pulls her further into the apartment. “Are you really ok?”

She looks sideways at his whisper, as if she’s surprised. And really, why wouldn’t she be? She’s not part of the 09er crowd, she’s had nothing but his own psychotic reputation to go on. 

“Tell me.” He orders quietly. “You tell me if you can’t handle it and I’ll get rid of him any way I can.”

When he turns around, leaving Mac dazed and confused and shrugging at Wallace, he sees Veronica and Dick standing by the door. There’s something that gnaws at him, a vivid kind of _wrongness_ that he can’t identify. Something is off about them. 

He knows, he’s not stupid, he knows Veronica is uncomfortable, that she doesn’t want to and isn’t really ready to deal with Dick just yet. But that’s not what bothers him. 

What bothers him is Dick. Dick standing there unable to meet Veronica’s eyes. He remembers feeling that. Standing there as if there’s something to be guilty about, as if he wants to break out in an apology, but he’s too scared of her reaction. 

What bothers him more is that Veronica doesn’t seem surprised by it. 

“Dick.” Logan wonders when he became the peacekeeper in the crowd, instead of the peace breaker. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.” Dick flashes him a grateful look as he hands something to Veronica. “And I brought snacks. You know, for the movies.”

“Dick.” Veronica’s voice sounds flat, emotionlessly unsurprised as she raises her eyebrows. “This isn’t a snack. It’s a bottle of vodka.”

 _Great._

“I’ve also got Jack Daniels.” The sound of clinking bottles is the only explanation Veronica will get out of Dick. “Jose Cuerva? Jim Beam?”

He sees the disproval evident in her expression and wonders if there’s anything else that could make this day more awkward. 

“All your favorite men?” At least her tone is teasing and close to normal. 

“You bet.” At least Dick is as annoying blasé about it as he usually is. 

“It’s barely midday.” Veronica’s voice cracks and Logan can see her swinging wildly between breaking out into the standard lecture of alcoholic children, or letting it be in the way of people understanding grieving friends. “We’re not drinking.”

“I am.”

He’s not sure he’s surprised at Mac’s statement as she takes the bottle out of Veronica’s hand. 

***


	10. ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello? Mars house of emotionally stunted teens...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R (dark themes, a few choice words).   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, ensemble. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things.   
> **Wordcount:** 6,204.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** They've been dancing around it all day, Veronica realizes. Like children at the beach, running up to the edge of the dry sand and pretending to dip their bare feet into the water, shrieking and running back when the waves crash around their ankles.  
>  **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Veronica + Alcohol + Repression = NOT a good combination.

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part ten**  
*~*~*~*

Like most situations she finds herself in that seem horribly, unutterably impossible and uncomfortable, Veronica decides that she has two choices. She doesn't let herself think about any more. Just gives her brain two choices and tells herself to follow the decision without looking back. 

Many times she has talked herself out of an hysterical break down, hyperventilating on the spot by doing just that. Any situation can be solved by making it as easy as a choice between A or B. No middle ground. 

Right now, she can get tough, she can tell Dick to put away the bottles because it's still _so damned early_ in the day and no one wants to drink and only people too weak to face their problems drink to forget them. She can look at everyone and tell them it's her apartment and she won't have hard liquor _water bottles that burn as the vodka fumes curl out of the neck_ and Dick can go to hell. 

Or she can relax her unbreakable stance just once, look at the weary droop of Mac's shoulders, notice the desperation that sticks to the underside of Dick's bravado, and understand. She can help them when they need it. 

She goes to the cupboard and begins lining small plastic tumblers, scratched and faded with the hamburglar peeling off the sides, up on the bench.

"Those aren't shot glasses, Veronica."

She closes her eyes and counts to five. 

"Well, if I'd known you were bringing an entire liquor store I could have been prepared." The last glass sounds loud as she sets it down harder than it needs. "But I didn't. So you have to deal with what we have."

Dick frowns for just a second before shrugging. 

"Nah, it's cool. The more in the cup, the merrier we'll be, right?"

Veronica blinks as he begins loading the glasses into his arms and taking them to the table by the couch. Mac is glaring at her from the armchair. She tries not to wonder why she automatically got five cups.

"I'm not drinking." 

It sounds weak, even to her. 

***

"I hate you." She and Wallace chant together. "And your stupid ass face!"

Her shoulder nudges his and he nudges right back. They're sitting on the carpet in front of the table, legs crossed Indian style. She misses this, just being goofy with Wallace, just hanging out. 

"Man." Dick pulls a bored face. "You like some weird movies, Veronica."

She rolls her eyes and looks at him pointedly. 

"Stool Capital of the World."

Dick's face turns red as he struggles not to laugh, but he can't do it and she feels vaguely validated. It doesn't bother her at all whether Dick likes the movies she watches, not in the least, but he's been laughing for the entire time the film has been playing and she won't let him needle her. 

Well, not any more than he already has. 

"You people are classy." Next to Dick on the couch, Logan has been keeping his eye on them, on all of them actually, and Veronica is grateful. "Really. The bar is raised high today."

"Says the boy who stayed on Neptune High's most illicit download list four straight months for bum fighting." Veronica has to laugh as Logan blinks under Mac's withering glare from the armchair. "Just shut up and drink, Echolls."

Veronica sees the slightly guilty flush to his neck before he raises the vodka to his lips, he won't meet her eyes when he does it. It's not like she cares. He's free to do anything he likes. 

And, she remembers, they're helping friends today. 

"You two." She looks up to see Dick pointing at her and Wallace. "You guys are fallin' behind. Drink up."

"I'm not drinking." She spells the words out slowly, reminding herself that maybe he hasn't quite picked up the gist of the last ten times she said it, and reaches forward to push the half full glass in front of her away. "Vodka isn't my thing."

"Really?" Dick challenges. "You want some peach coolers or something else girly? Champagne with juice?"

It's not witty, it's not even pretending to be clever, so she hasn't really bothered making an effort to defend herself. But she sees Logan reach out and cuff the side of Dick's head. 

"Don't push her. She said she didn't want to."

He's only standing up for her, so she's not sure why that bugs her. 

"What about you, Fennel?" Dick moves on. "Why aren't you drinking?"

Beside her, Wallace frowns, glaring her annoyance by proxy. She loves this boy. 

"I don't want to."

It's true. She knows that Wallace is taking her lead, that's he's supporting her silently. If she were to pick up the not-a-shot glass, which even half full is probably three shots in one, then Wallace would pick up his. 

She's secretly glad that he's there and it almost makes her wistful. 

Years ago, she was the one frowning, sitting close to her friend and following the lead. At the time, she would have let Lilly lead her into hell. Gladly. And she knows that she has Wallace's loyalty to the same level. 

If not more. 

Dick's expression catches her out of the corner of her eye, far from being amused at her insistence, he looks guilty. She can't help wondering if he knows, somehow. Then again, she thinks, of course he knows. 

It's just the sort of asshole thing Lamb would have loved. She can picture him now, leaning over his desk, closer to Dick, the easier to see the expressions that pass over his face. 

_Do you know what your brother did?_

The smug grin, the insolent popping of gum as he cruelly lists everything in detail, the crash, Curly, the rooftop, everything. And then, finally, the cherry on his sadistic sundae as his eyes glitter like broken glass. And just as cheap. 

_Do you know what he did to Veronica Mars?_

Lamb would have lapped it up like a mangy cat with stolen cream. 

Of course Dick knows. 

"Veronica? Veronica, where are you?" Logan's voice nudges her back to reality as he uses his finger to generously circle the air around his face. "That face? Says you'd rather be... spelunking?"

Dick chortles and Mac giggles, Wallace gives a patented confused frown, but Veronica is sucked dry. She knows Logan is only trying to nudge her into smiling, a small joke between them. 

But she's thrown back to that day, the reason for the conversation in the first place, how she had to suck her pride right into her belly and ask him about Duncan's sexual history. 

God, she wants that, the simplicity of believing Duncan was whoring around behind her back and gave her an STD as proof. It stung then, thinking Duncan had done that, knowing she didn't really know one way or the other if it was true. The way he'd acted, she would have believed it of him. 

Thinking she'd been cheated on was infinitely preferable to the truth.

She's tossed carelessly back to that moment in Woody's Burgers, seeing Cassidy's name and putting it all together. Throwing up in the harsh neon light of the ladies room that smelled like cheap lemon bleach. 

"Screw it." Veronica reaches for the glass on the table. "I'm in."

***

"I never..." Wallace grins as he looks around the room. "...did something I didn't want to do because Veronica Mars manipulated me."

There are groans all round. 

Veronica laughs, she can't help it, little giggles as Wallace silently toasts her and bravely takes the first shot. Logan follows the toast, Mac raises her glass and drinks. Dick glares, muttering to himself, but takes the shot without flinching. 

She waits until they're all done, before raising her glass high and pouring it down her throat to the sound of them laughing at her.

"Backup!" Logan's arm gestures wildly. "Backup, come here! It's your turn!"

It's possible she's had more to drink than she should, blood is buzzing through her veins, making her head spin and all she can do is frown slightly at the thought of Logan getting Backup drunk. 

"Fuck, man." Dick groans. "You'll get the whole school drunk with that one."

"Nah uh. The town." Wallace confirms and she gives his shoulder a nudge with a very loose fist. 

Mac sighs. 

"Coulda had the world, Bond."

***

They say alcohol is supposed to make things easier. They say people become alcoholics because it lets them forget, it takes them away from their problems. Veronica watched her mother sink into a vicious cycle of drinking to forget the pain that drinking gave her. 

She'd heard her mother pleading that things were too hard not to drink. 

Veronica thinks They are all full of bullshit. 

Alcohol isn't making anything easier on her right now. She's feeling a little dizzy, but she can't look at Dick sitting on the couch without having to forcibly remember to breathe and she can't look at Mac without wanting to cry. 

She empties the glass down her throat. 

"Hey!" Logan looks at her, surprised. "Nobody said 'I never...'! That's cheating."

"Yeah? Then..." A smile curves her lips. "I never cheated at a stupid drinking game just to get drunk faster."

Four people groan at her words, five people drink. 

The telephone rings and she stumbles, cursing as her leg hits the coffee table getting up. The cradle feels big and bulky in the palm of her hand as she brings it up to her ear. 

"Hello? Mars House of Emotionally Stunted Teens."

"What?" The voice on the other end of the line is gently puzzled. "Veronica? Are you drinking?"

She looks down at the empty glass still in her other hand. 

"Not this very second, Dad, no." 

There's a small crash behind her. 

"You got a towel, Veronica?" Mac's voice sounds loud over her shoulder. "The vodka's seeping into the carpet."

She closes her eyes and points to the cupboard down the hall. 

"Veronica." Keith's voice is firm and a little disappointed. "What's going on over there?"

"Nothing." Her answer comes a little too quickly, too rushed. "It's Mac, just Mac."

She holds the phone up as Mac returns.

"Hi Mr. Mars!" 

"See?"

"Fiesta Foul!" The loud voice is undeniable. "Ghost World, you gotta do another shot!"

Yeah. That? Not helping. She gives the glare of death to Dick as she brings the receiver back to her ear. Knowing, just knowing, that the voice she hears will have that flat, empty taste of disappointment. 

"Veronica?" She knew it. "I don't believe I'm asking this, but are you having... a party?"

"Not a party, no. A gathering." Semantics, schemantics. Veronica goes for the trump card. "We're _mourning_."

It's almost as if she can see him roll his eyes in front of her. 

"You're underage, is what you are." He takes a breath and it's like he's sucking all the air out of the apartment, through the phone. "Was that Dick Casablancas? Weren't you supposed to do this sort of thing in high school? Didn't you graduating mean I was safe?"

"Yes. Yes. And apparently not."

"Veronica?" He sighs again and she can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he thinks. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid until I get home. The four of you are not to leave that apartment, do you hear me?"

It shouldn't take this long, she's sure of it, as her brow crinkles and she mentally counts the fuzzy people in the room. 

"Five." Comes the breathy, triumphant little answer. "There's five of us."

"Who else is there?" Now she can definitely hear anger in his voice. "I definitely think five pushes the definition of gathering to party, young lady."

The term makes her bristle.

"It's just Wallace! He doesn't count, you know that."

"Yeah, thanks Mars!" It's only a mock hurt in the voice that yells behind her. "You really know how to make a guy feel special!"

She turns around and gives him a guilty, apologetic smile. 

"Because he's family." The words are said loudly and clearly. "That's why."

"Look." Keith sighs. "Behave, okay? Don't do anything stupid. Don't leave the apartment. And eat something, for crying out loud."

"And brush our teeth and floss?"

Maybe, quite possibly, glib and flippant was not her best choice right then. 

"I'm not happy, Veronica."

When she hangs the receiver up, with just a small amount of fumbling, there are four faces watching her expectantly. 

"We're in lockdown, no one's allowed to leave." The announcement is met with groans. 

"But!" She holds up her hand with glee. "He didn't say stop drinking!" 

That announcement is met with cheers.

***

"I never..." Logan teases. "... thought about sleeping with a teacher."

Dicks drinks and Veronica doesn't want to know. Ever. 

"C'mon Mac." She urges instead. "What about Renny Dumouy?"

"The tech guy?" Mac blushes. "He's not a teacher."

"Staff!" Dick insists. "Drink up, horn dog."

"I hate you." Mac glares as she drinks, but Veronica's not stupid, she knows to fear the glint in her Mac's when she looks back. "What about Mr. Rooks?"

"I... I..." But there's no bluster here and she drinks. "You're going down, McKenzie, I will end you."

"Mr. Rooks?" Logan looks honestly offended. "Isn't he that sleaze that got fired for getting Susan Knight pregnant? That YOU got fired?"

"It's not like I wanted to think about it." She's not even sure why she feels she needs to explain herself, but the words rush out anyway. "He was hitting on me, with his Mick Jagger and pizza and black satin sheets. I keep trying to forget it."

"Oh, ew." Dick scrunches up his nose. 

"Seconded." Wallace agrees. 

"What about you, Logan?" Veronica can't help herself from challenging him. "If she wore a skirt, you thought about it."

"Well." His glass is raised in toast. "That Miss Rouche. Wow." 

He grins, drinks and Veronica tries not to shudder at that lovely mental image. 

***

Veronica eyes the greasy pizza boxes and knows, just knows, that if any more of it comes near her, she's going to throw up. She leans back on her hands and closes her eyes, praying that the pizza box fairy will take them away. 

Soft voices from the television float into her consciousness. 

She's fairly sure that not one person in the room could name the movie that is playing, or even any of the actors on the screen at any given time. But when the movies finish and the menu screens return to their annoying start up music, the disc always gets replaced and play is always pressed. 

As if sitting around the table demolishing a bottle of vodka and making a decent attempt at the tequila, with people who don't even really like each other on a good day, can somehow be justified by the purpose of the movies. 

"I never..." Mac sighs in a small voice. "... found out my family lied to me."

All five of them drink. 

"I never..." Dick's voice is also small. "... thought they'd do something so awful."

Dick, Logan and Veronica take their shots. 

She's not sure if she wants to play anymore, but the glasses keep getting refilled. 

"I never..." Logan's voice makes her look up and he's smiling. "... went skinny dipping."

Dick shrugs and drinks, Logan follows, and Veronica smiles sweetly. She's grateful that he brought the mood up and she can't help but watch his face as she raises her glass and drains it. His eyes spark up and she can see him ticking over the timeline of the last few years. 

"I never..." This time, Veronica turns to Wallace with wide, expectant eyes. "... watched Veronica Mars when she went skinny dipping."

He grins sheepishly and looks down at his hands. If someone asks her, she'd have to say that Wallace Fennel was blushing. He drinks quickly. 

"I knew it!" She crows as she punches his shoulder and he falls back. "I so knew it."

"Hey!" Logan sits forward. "Details, details!"

"Yeah!" Dick sounds too eager. "Details, man!"

"Are you kidding?" Wallace shakes his head. "She's sitting right here and she will hurt me."

"Okay, okay." Mac interrupts. "I never got arrested."

Veronica, Dick and Logan sigh as they drink again. 

***

The moments of silence get longer, stretching out between them and slicing the room into little corners of isolation. 

She looks at Mac and sees a sort of hopelessness, an emptiness that shouldn't be there and she can't breathe. She's been there, she's slowly pulled away from everyone because she couldn't handle admitting the truth let alone sharing the pain with anyone. 

It's a sobering revelation when she realizes that the only person she told in two years, between waking up alone and finally looking for answers, was Donald Lamb. And that, she muses wryly, did not end well. 

There are five people in the room, four more than she had when she needed them.

"I never..." Veronica hates herself for it, but she can't stop the next sentence. "... found myself alone in a strange room searching for my underwear, crying and asking how it happened."

There's total silence in the room. 

Mac looks at her and sighs, but there's a glint in her eye. They nod at each other and take the shot. She feels the burn as it goes down and welcomes it, the breathy gasp of Mac slamming down her glass on the table tells her she's not alone.

Logan looks at her like he's about to say something and she looks back, daring him to do just that. Wallace shakes his head refuses to meet their eyes.

Dick's hand shakes as he tops up their glasses. 

"I don't wanna play this game no more." Wallace announces. "Not like this."

"They... they found them, you know." Mac says quietly, staring down into the refilled tumbler in her hands. "My clothes. The police found them in the stairwell, abandoned."

Veronica picks up her glass, her hand is shaking, too. 

"They tried to give them back, like I'd wear them home or something." Mac continues telling her knees. "I couldn't look at them. I... I... I told my mom to burn them."

Burning, flames. Veronica wonders what it is about them that's so enticing to victims and the guilty alike.

"I cut my dress into little pieces." It's the first time she's told anyone. Ever. The words come out thick and stale. "Then I put them in a trash can and set it on fire."

She can still see the way the white material turned a smoky brown around the edges before the smolder turned into fully blown flames, thin little threads of it turning red as the fire ate at them, as her nose twitched with the stench. 

Maybe it was the obliteration, the total destruction of evidence, leaving nothing but ash behind as a reminder. 

"Yeah." Mac whispers softly. 

The two of them drink again and Veronica feels the boys watching. 

She thinks, perhaps, the walls shouldn't be pounding the way they are, pulsing in and out in synch with the rush of blood that throbs inside her skull. If she closes her eyes it feels as if she's turning over and over and over, as if she's on some stomach churning ride at a theme park. Or being pulled underneath vicious waves, tumbling around in the whitewash and unable to catch a breath. 

"I never..." She tries not to make it sound like a sob. "... drank until I passed out."

She's not surprised when Wallace and Logan both lean forward and place their hands on top of hers, trapping it and the glass on the table. What does confuse her is the third hand that lands firmly. 

"That's not your shot, Mars."

_Not yet._

Her fingers slide from the glass and her wrist drops, her teeth bite down on her bottom lip and she refuses to cry. 

***

"I didn't know." Mac whispers suddenly. "How could I not know?"

They've been dancing around it all day, Veronica realizes. Like children at the beach, running up to the edge of the dry sand and pretending to dip their bare feet into the water, shrieking and running back when the waves crash around their ankles.

"He was my brother." Dick's next to point out the pink elephant sitting in the middle of the room, whistling innocently at the ceiling. "Why didn't I know?"

"Nobody knew." Veronica whispers. "That was the point."

She realizes her mistake when Dick looks up sharply, the soft, blurry edges of him snap back into clarity as he focuses in on her. 

"He talked to you, didn't he?" She tries to shake her head, but Dick doesn't stop. "What'd he say, Ronnie? What did...?"

"Leave her alone, man." 

"Stay out of this, Fennel." Dick won't stop looking at her. "You weren't even there. But Ronnie was."

"Veronica?" Mac's voice shakes, reluctant but curious all at the same time. "What happened?"

She buries her head in her hands, rocks forward and tries not to think about it, tries not to remember the pain filled screech that was Cassidy falling apart at her feet. 

"I was there." She hears Logan's voice. "And he wasn't making much sense. Just drop it."

"Verrrrrronica."

Dick tries to call her back to attention, but the dark sing song tone of his voice reminds her of someone else calling her name like that, threats through a walkie talkie, heat licking at the edges of her world and smoke filling her lungs. 

"He was my brother." Dick insists again. "And I deserve to know."

Her head flies up and she feels herself explode. 

"Know what? Dick? What do you want to know? That he laughed? That he bragged about killing all those people? Is it easier to know that?"

The dam has burst, she feels it all rush out, leaving nothing but an ache. Like a boil being lanced and drained of infection. 

"You want to know how cocky he was? Listing the things he'd done? He was so damned proud of himself. That he checked everything off his list, like he expected a pat on the back? Like he wanted my blessing, christ, my fucking _admiration_ for pulling it off. Is that what you wanted, Dick?"

"No." All Dick can do is shake his head. 

"That's not enough?" She challenges. "How about the fact that he laughed at me? That he delighted in giving me sixty seconds to call my dad before blowing up the plane. That he didn't even blink when I thought my dad was dead?"

Her lungs can't seem to get enough air, it's like her bronchial tubes have closed inside her chest, hard and tight and burning. 

"That he told me how marvelous I was playing right into his hands? That he bragged about how clever he was hiding the fact that he raped me? You wanna guess how marvelous that made me feel?"

"Veronica." Logan's suddenly right next to her, she can feel him solid like a brick wall. "Stop it."

"Is that enough, Dick?" She chokes on her own words. "Is it? What more do you want?"

Everything goes quiet and then Dick meets her eyes. 

"Why?" It's raw, everything behind the question is raw and it's going to kill her. "Why did he do all that?"

Why? The one question she can't answer. The question that Mac asked her. Why?

"I don't know." She can't believe how much the words hurt as they come out. "I keep asking myself, but I don't..."

"Was it because of him?" Dick's eyes glow and she can't ever remember him being angry before. "Because of what he did?"

Her heart speeds up and her hands clutch, blindly searching for something. Dick Casablancas has never looked like his brother, but now, in front of her, his eyes are the same. Murderous. And her mouth goes dry. 

Wallace is beside her and Logan is behind her and she can't step backwards, but she really doesn't need to. They’re there, solid and warm and just _there_ and that’s what counts. 

"Maybe." There’s nothing she can say, really, and so she says anything. “He was screwed up, Dick. Who knows why? Because he got picked last in gym. Because he was allergic to strawberries. Because your dad loved you more. Because your mom never cared for either of you and Kendall was fucking everything that moved. Because, yeah, he got molested. Which one explains it? Which one makes you feel better?”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” And Veronica’s not even sure Dick’s asking her or himself. Or nobody. “Why didn’t he say something?”

She sees the tears that are streaming down Mac’s face and she wants to go over and comfort her, wishes she could at least go over and join her, just fall into the chair and cry. 

“What would you have done?” She asks instead. “There wasn’t anything to make it all better! He found his way out and now he’s gone.”

“I would’ve done something.” 

The firm insistence sticks, jams the air around her, she knows that sinking, all encompassing feeling of frustration and helplessness. Why didn’t Cassidy ever tell Dick? Why didn’t he tell the truth when it could have made a difference and saved so much pain?

 _I have a secret, a good one._

“Something. Anything.” It’s a low, boiling roll of bitterness coming out of Dick. “Didn’t he know that? I would’ve hurt that fucker, made him pay so…”

“Would you?” The question comes out before she even thinks about it. “Because your history isn’t that stellar, Dick, trust me.”

He flinches, like she’s just slapped him. And the thought has crossed her mind. 

“It's not your fault." So she uses her words to wound him instead, even though she doesn’t want to, even with the feel of Wallace trying to calm her down, with Mac staring at her. "Isn't that what you want to hear, Dick? Is it? It's not your fault."

Her lungs burn as she tries to gasp air down her throat. 

She reaches for the glass, any glass, just to make oblivion reach her faster, but Logan snatches it out of her reach. 

"Not your fault, even if you walked him to each baseball practice. Huh? Shook Woody's hand and wished them a good game?" Her eyes don't leave Dick, she makes sure her meaning bores right into his skull. "It's not like you locked him in a room with the Mayor, is it? Not like you were the one who egged the Mayor on, is it?"

"Ronnie." Dick's face is pale as he shakes his head. "Stop. Okay? Just stop. I'm sorry, I..."

The words are bitter bile, spraying out of her mouth and burning him. She knows how wrong they are, hates herself a thousand times for just saying them, but it feels good to get them _out_.

"You can't blame Woody, Dick. Just because Beaver got all drunk and slutty."

And there, the words are free, those bitter, hateful words that choked her all last year. They float in the middle of the air now, out of her, but threatening to choke everyone else instead. 

"Veronica!" 

Logan just stares at her, her name still echoing around his gaping mouth. She thinks she sees the small spark of growing understanding and she wants to slap him for it as she finally breaks down and lets the tears course down her cheeks. 

She can't quite care, she'd had to carry that hateful accusation all year, had to bite it back every time she forced a smile and looked at Dick. Every time that Logan had begged her to play nice with his friends. She'd done it for Logan, because he needed everyone to play nice and never knew how much it cost her. 

The only reason she could look herself in the mirror was because she'd known, _believed, really_ that all the horrors she'd imagined had never happened, that she'd been with Duncan and nothing bad had come of the idiocy that had been Dick.

All those times she'd woken up, breathless, with just a hint of a scream on her lips, with fuzzy pictures in her brain. Figures surrounding her, voices jeering, the pulsing undercurrent of music, hands, always there were sweaty hands. All those times she had to wrestle with the question of whether she'd been remembering or imagining. And she'd never known. 

She'd been able to put that to rest for a year, but they were back. Had she tried to say no? Had she asked anyone for help? Had she tried to complain, only to have a hand hold her mouth closed? Had she felt it at the time? Had she cried during it? Or had the dried tears she'd woken with happened during sleep?

Did she...? Had he...? 

"No." Her voice is surprisingly cold as she swallows whatever sobs are left and stares at him. "What the Mayor did wasn't your fault. But what happened to me was."

"Veronica." The name comes to her from far away, a soft voice in her ear. "Veronica."

Her whole body flinches and she pulls away. 

"Don't touch me." Throwing her hands up and wrenching her shoulders out of his grasp. "Logan, just... don't."

Her head pounds and she really needs to write the Cuerva people to complain. This is not happy, drunken bliss at all. 

"Get her out of here." She hears Logan, but the words don't register as she hiccups, what does break through to her is the venom in his voice, the anger that's brewing. "Mac, too. Take them to her room or something."

"C'mon." It's Wallace that surrounds her then. "C'mon, V."

She can't stop shaking as she's drawn away. 

***

A stack full of papers fall to the floor, fanning themselves out and it will most likely take her the better part of an hour getting them in order again. 

Veronica couldn't care less. 

She wrenches open another drawer and nearly upends it, thrusting the contents from side to side as she searches, her hand digging through stationary and other odd items and tossing them aside. 

"Veronica." Wallace tries to get her to stay still. "Veronica? What are you doing?"

"Healing."

It's funny how the shakes that won't stop convulsing her muscles don't seem to transfer to her vocal chords. She sounds cold and clinical. 

"What?"

Her hand closes around the Stanley knife that she knew was somewhere in the mess. When she spins around, intent and ready to move, she comes to a complete standstill and sighs. 

Mac's sitting on her bed, staring down at the hands clasped in her lap. 

"I'm sorry." She says it truthfully. "I'm sorry, Mac. Really."

"I didn't know." Is the only thing Mac can say, small voiced and barely hanging on. "How could I not know?"

"Nobody knew." She bites down on her lip. "Not even me."

They all stay still for several minutes, Mac trying to dissolve into the bedspread, Wallace not taking his eyes off the blade in her hand, and Veronica staring. 

Eventually someone has to say something. 

"I need you to move, Mac."

"Huh?" Mac looks up and Veronica sees her eyes widen. "Veronica, what are you doing?"

She feels a hand on her forearm. 

"I am not helping you move another bed in here." Says the voice in her ear. "I told you after the waterbed fiasco."

Her fingers twitch around the blade and she rolls her eyes. 

"I'm not going to go Norman Bates on the mattress, you moron." She'd laugh if she wasn't so drained right now. "I need to get what's underneath."

"Oh." It's too easy to placate Wallace, she thinks as Mac stands up and the three of them begin to shift the bed away from the wall. "In that case..."

Mac frowns. 

"There's nothing there."

Veronica doesn't respond as she falls down on her knees and begins slicing the carpet in the far corner, fingers pressing down and trying to feel something too flat to notice. It should stick right out, burn her fingers, like the Princess who felt the pea under twenty mattresses.

She knows it's there. 

"Yeah." Wallace's voice is full of concern again. "As long as you're not Bates-ing the bed, then. Just the carpet."

"Ha." 

She crows with triumph as soon as she has a space big enough to slip her fingers in, digging around for it. There's nothing but the feel and smell of dust, so she hooks her fingers in tighter and pulls up. 

The sound of tearing fills the room. 

"Come on!" She hisses. 

There's an ugly stain under the cloth that she doesn't remember being there. Bright red, it reminds her briefly of the night Lilly died and there's something wrong with that, something that doesn't sit right. 

She should know what it is, but she can't really think. 

"Veronica!" Mac's cry makes her blink. "You're bleeding."

The stain is too fresh and too bright to be from years ago, the last time she saw the floorboards. The fingernail of her right forefinger is split and the mark on the carpet is spreading even as she looks at it. 

"It should be here." She pulls harder, tears the corner into a gaping hole. "Damn it, where is it?"

Her nose and eyes clog with dust and unused air, nearly three years worth, creating a sticky mess with the tears that flow down her cheek. Her hand scrambles under the dry crumble of carpet until her fingers brush the corner of a manila envelope. 

Nearly three years, of course it's shifted. 

"Yes!" 

It took her several months to stop thinking about it constantly, to lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling without picturing the envelope that lay underneath her head. It took her a long time after that to forget about it for more than a day at a time. 

In the last year, she realizes, the only time she thought about it was when the FBI were crawling over the room. 

Her hands tremble and she leans against the wall, turning so that she can sit down. She doesn't know if she can open it, doesn't know what she's doing with it, doesn't even know why she kept it all that time. 

Even after everything. 

Screw it. 

She pushes herself up and off the floor, doesn't look at Wallace or Mac as her right hand tears the edge of the large, A4 sized sleeve. Three steps and she's close to the door, ignoring the voices that protest her going back out there. 

Her fingers know the familiar sheen of the sheets she pulls out of the envelope, she doesn't need to look at them. She doesn't notice the small, black cloth that sticks to one of them. 

***

"Tell me!"

Veronica doesn't know what she's expecting when she storms back into the living room, but she stops in her tracks when she sees Dick against the wall and Logan holding him there with an arm across his throat. 

"Tell me, Dick." She doesn't stop to acknowledge Logan. If she does she'll lose her nerve and she'll never get another chance. "Was this him?"

Logan backs off easily when she pushes herself in front of Dick and holds up the first of the large, glossy photos.

"Was it?" Her voice cracks. "Or was it Duncan? Because I can't remember!"

"Jesus, Ronnie!" Dick gasps. "What the hell is that?"

She doesn't need to look at it, hasn't looked at it since she first sealed the envelope and buried it, but she knows what's on the photo, knows what's staring Dick right in the face. 

She can describe it in excruciating detail. 

"That." It's a hiss, a knife sliding through her teeth and into his face. "Is the inside of my thigh. It's a hickey, commonly called a love bite."

The catch sneaks out as she says the words, it sounds too much like a sob dripping over the words. 

"Those little marks you see? Those are teeth marks. It's very intimate. So tell me." His whole face flinches when she looks him straight in the eye. "Does that look like your brother's handy work?"

Dick can only shake his head and press himself further back into the wall. 

"No? Can't tell? Fine." The photo slips out of her fingers easily, tossed aside, much like she was that morning. "How about this one? That's my hip. Those little finger shaped marks are bruises. Was that him?"

"I don't know!" Dick finally manages with a gasp. "Jesus, I don't know!"

"Veronica, stop it!" Logan's voice orders. "Did you...? My god, Veronica, did you keep these all this time?"

She spins and sees him standing there, picking the abandoned photo from the floor. Her throat closes and the last thing she wants is him seeing it, studying it, knowing more about that morning. 

But what steals her breath is the little black choker dangling from his fingers. 

***


	11. eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Santa, I've been very good, mostly anyway, please kill Wallace Fennel, thank you so much. Logan Echolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R (dark themes, a few choice words).   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, ensemble. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things.   
> **Wordcount:** 9,438 (yeah, I *know*).  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** She simmers like the eye of a storm, he realizes too late.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Logan's POV

*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part eleven**  
*~*~*

"Ante up, Mars." Dick's voice roars through the apartment and makes Logan cringe. "We need five shot glasses here."

Bad Idea. 

Not only does the whole day have those words written all over them, they're blinking in giant neon letters, stamped into each glare Veronica sends him, each nervous twitch of Mac and frown of Wallace. 

Logan's fairly sure the words _Bad Idea_ were there before he even invited Dick over. 

He watches Dick banter with Veronica about glasses and he still can't figure them out. They've never been close friends, not even years ago when her smile was innocent and his teasing was too, so he's not foolish enough to even think that will ever change and they'll be comfortable with each other. 

For a few months, maybe, he'd tried hard to make them get along, believing that they were both being stubborn, that if only they'd relax and see what he saw then they'd have fun. They are, perhaps, the two most important people left in his life. Deluded as he'd been then, he'd thought they'd reached some form of compromise. 

_Please, Veronica, can't you just try? For me? He's my friend. He's the only one here. He's been nothing but nice to you since we started dating._

Watching them now, he knows exactly how strained that compromise really is. Veronica's eyes harden around the edges, even as she smiles at him, her mouth sets in a thin line that gives away exactly how annoyed she is. 

Dick's being too bright, too much of everything. He's trying too hard with Veronica and that's suspicious on its own. Dick Casablancas doesn't try. 

"I'm not drinking."

Logan looks up to see Veronica frowning at them, the four of them settling themselves around the small living room. His brain clicks over the sound of the glasses hitting the table: one; two; three; four; and very clearly, very absolutely five. Veronica got the glasses and the math isn't that hard to do. 

He bites back a comment along those very lines _Bad Idea, Bad._

If he's learned anything at all from his parents, it's how to recognize and manipulate the dynamics in a room. Mac was easy enough to guide towards the armchair, part of everything, but with enough space to feel comfortable. 

As much as he wants to grab hold of Veronica and pull her down onto the couch with him, keep her next to him all afternoon, someone has to watch Dick. Watching Dick, and Logan has spent many years training his face not to react to the implications of that name, is paramount to preventing the need to comfort either Veronica or Mac. 

So it's an unspoken treaty that Wallace grabs the floor space, makes room for Veronica, and all Logan can do is hope for the best. 

***

Parker Posey has an annoying voice, quite possibly it's just the accent she's using on the screen, but Logan is doing the best he knows how to ignore her. She's never been his type. 

Then again, Dick joked one afternoon in the suite as they watched TV, anyone that isn’t small, petite and blonde doesn't really fit his type. And sassy, definitely sassy, Dick had emphasized with a small shake of his head as he coughed something that sounded too much like the name Hannah.

Logan had brained him with a cushion to hide the sting of that comment. 

She'd been small, she'd been petite and cute as a bug, and he'd fallen in love with the wide-eyed way she looked up at him, the unquestioning _trust_ , and the little puppy dog admiration. Afterwards he'd felt hollow and empty and had pushed her out of his mind too easily for him to do anything but realize he'd fallen in love with how she made him feel and not her, not Hannah herself. 

It kills him; the fact that she took that bet and lost everything for him, when he knows now he wouldn't have done the same for her. 

"Man. You like some weird movies, Veronica."

Logan can't help the smile as her eyes light up with challenge and she puts him back in his place. 

"Stool Capital of the World."

It's just base enough to have Dick laughing and Logan takes the time to breathe easier, knowing that he doesn't have to step in and cuff Dick across the head for being a jackass, and also watch the triumph that spreads over her face when she's right. 

Sassy, definitely sassy. 

"You people are classy." He spreads his hands out wide then brings them in, crossing them behind his neck as he leans back. "Really. The bar is raised high today."

He's too busy watching the flush that crawls up Veronica's neck to notice anyone else. 

"Says the boy who stayed on Neptune High's most illicit download list four straight months for bum fighting." Certainly not Mac, who's been quiet since she stepped in the door. "Just shut up and drink, Echolls."

Wow, his brain sneaks in before he can stop it, that’s kinda sassy, too. 

The images that brings up make him look down at his feet and tip his glass down his throat. 

"You two." Not that he has time to worry about it, as Dick sits up next to him and points at Veronica and Wallace. "You guys are fallin' behind, drink up."

He knows why Veronica isn't drinking. Lianne, combined with Dick and Madison and Duncan and Cassidy and every single fucking person at that stupid goddamned party, including himself, have made her nine shades of fucked up when it comes to alcohol. 

It's not even that she doesn't trust them, Logan would kill anyone who'd try to hurt her now and he thinks she knows that, she has to, but Veronica doesn't trust herself. She doesn't want to lose control; she never wants to lose control. 

"I'm not drinking." Her voice is steely. "Vodka isn't my thing."

"Really?" Dick's voice is too high, too amused, too _mean._ "You want some peach coolers? Or something else girly? Champagne with juice?"

It makes Logan's muscles tighten. 

_No, Logan, there's nothing wrong with your mother. Nothing a little Valium chased with scotch wouldn't fix. Isn't that right, Lynn?_

"Don't push her." There might be more force behind the hand that hits Dick on the head than strictly necessary, but no one's going to mention it. "She said she didn't want to."

Logan sees Veronica's eyes narrow slightly, this time at him. He should have known better than to intervene.

_Don't antagonize your father, Logan. You know how he gets._

Fine, he thinks, they can just kill each other then. 

"What about you, Fennel?" Dick might be stupid, but he knows when to move on. "Why aren't you drinking?"

There's a brief second, a flash when Wallace meets his eyes and Logan feels the accusation, the pointed jab. 

"I don't want to." 

What he means, it's clear in the way his words cut off suddenly, is that he's sticking by Veronica when her own boyfriend cannot and will not do it. He's the one taking the stand, being there for her when Logan isn't. 

Wallace might as well have said it out loud, because that's what everyone in the room is thinking. 

Or maybe not. 

Logan watches Veronica's face harden. He knows that look. She's lost somewhere. It could be anywhere, given the last week or even, hell, the last few years. There's something wrong with the world when it's hard to figure out which event or person causes that look on a girl's face. 

On Veronica's face. 

"Veronica? Veronica, where are you?" She doesn't respond and his voice rises until she blinks out of it and looks at him. He can see the moment she returns to the present, that she recognizes him. "That face? Says you'd rather be spelunking?"

Okay, as private jokes go, that's not one. 

Her eyes immediately back away, distancing themselves, and he watches her face close up. Wherever she was moments ago was nothing, infinitely preferable to where she is now. 

He's not even sure what he just said, there's nothing in it to remind her of anything bad. They'd been walking down the hall, on their way to his locker, he'd asked her out to the alterna-prom. 

She'd been asking... It hits him full force. She'd been asking him about Duncan's sex life. A question he'd wondered about, but hadn't really thought anything of at the time. Until the trial and the defense had torn her down.

They haven't spoken of it, but he thinks he's fairly sure it wasn't Duncan, which leaves only one other option and that's nowhere he wants Veronica to be right now. 

He needs to say something, to bring her out of it before she does something she'll regret. 

"Screw it." He's too late as she reaches for the glass. "I'm in."

Bad Idea. Bad, Bad, _Bad_. 

***

Drinking isn't an alien concept to Logan. Drinking to get smashed and forget anything and everything that's been happening is as natural to him as breathing, he does it effortlessly. 

But there's something altogether odd and uncomfortable about five people seated around a table with no purpose other than to get drunk. Pick up the glass, swallow liquid, put down the glass, and glance awkwardly at everyone else. Rinse, lather, repeat. 

It's not natural at all. 

"I never..." Logan smiles with his idea. "... played 'I never'."

He can see the questioning looks and the eye rolls, but everyone takes a drink and he grins. 

"Well." He sits up straighter. "That makes it easy. Who's next?"

It's weak and he knows it. They all know it. The flimsiest of all excuses, but it's still a game to take away the slightly depressing aspect of not knowing what to say when everyone knows what's not being said. 

He's surprised when the next person to speak is Wallace. 

"I never did something I didn't want to do because Veronica Mars manipulated me."

Well, he thinks, that's just cheating. Everyone has to drink with that. The entire room knows it as Wallace drinks, then Logan, then Mac and even a grumbling Dick. The fact that Veronica knows the rules and herself well enough to drink to that makes Logan laugh. 

There's no one in the direct vicinity that she hasn't manipulated. 

"Backup!" Not a living, breathing soul as Logan waves his arm for the dog. "Backup, come here! It's your turn!"

And not one of them would complain. 

Especially when she knows it and laughs, not even bothering to deny it. 

"Fuck, man." Even Dick knows that wasn't a fair call. "You'll get the whole school drunk with that one."

***

It's going too well. 

Even as the words _Bad Idea_ begin to eddy and swirl and shift to _Okayish Idea,_ Logan knows that somehow, sometime soon, something has to be said or done to bring down the precarious house of cards that they've built. 

Running in and out of rooms, playing peek a boo and hide and seek among dangerously shaky corners, ignoring the way the structure trembles as another card is leant against the ones before it. 

All it would take is one misstep, one carelessly spoken word or flick of the wrist. 

Like Veronica drinking without being prompted. 

"Hey!" He wants to swap places with Wallace, to sit next to her and feel her, to touch her again and know for certain she's all right. Things always seem clearer between them when he's able to hold her. "Nobody said 'I never'! That's cheating."

"Yeah?" Her smile is soft and a little too careless to be anything but slightly tipsy, but her eyes are smiling too and he lets it go. "Then... I never cheated at a stupid drinking game just to get drunk faster."

Oooh, snap. They all drink. 

The phone rings and he's not really surprised. From Veronica's voice, it's Keith and that's not surprising either. After this morning, the only thing he's been surprised about is that there haven't been choppers circling the sky and cameras peeking through the curtains. 

He still wouldn't be particularly shocked to find cameras hidden in a houseplant somewhere. 

"Hey man." Dick leans over. "What are you doin' at Ronnie's, anyway? You even been back to the Grand?"

No one says _since it happened_ but everyone hears it.

He thinks about standing on the rooftop watching Veronica fall apart, thinks about hearing her voice like that, thinks about finding Mac in her room, about Aaron's coldly threatening voice and the way his brains might have looked spread over the stylish carpet of the hotel room floor. 

"No." He says. 

"Guess not." It's a nudge, a gentle push in his ribs and he knows what's coming. "So, you and Ronnie hook up again? Did you guys...?"

A pointed cough sounds from the floor. 

"If that question is finished or answered, I'll hurt you both." Wallace shrugs. "Fair warning."

It's too little too late, Logan knows, he feels the blood in his cheeks and sees the spark light up in Dick's eyes. 

"You did!"

"Drop it, Dick." 

It's never been that easy as a hand slaps down on his shoulder.

"I knew you were a man whore, Logan, but that's a new record even for you." There's the expected hint of awe in Dick's voice, the outward show of support, but Logan can see the smallest flint in the back of Dick's eyes, just a tinge of hurt. "I mean, did you even wait 'til you got inside the door, or what?"

He's weighing the pros and cons of punching Dick to shut him up or waiting until Wallace does it, when there's a small crash and they all look to see Mac's face, pale and blanched, her hands shaking as she looks at the glass turning over itself on the carpet. 

"Oops." She whispers as she stands up too fast, too eager to get away.

"Get your mind out of the gutter for once." Logan turns back to Dick with a hiss. "Nothing happened, okay? Nothing. It's not like that." 

Dick makes a face, but doesn't say anything else as he ignores the glares coming from the floor. Logan wonders exactly how long he has until this story is forwarded to Veronica. And here he thought the days censoring his alcohol induced girl talk because the girl's brother was right there were over. 

Mac returns with a towel. 

"Fiesta Foul!" Dick yells it and Logan knows that not only is the conversation pointedly forgotten, so is he. "Ghost World, you gotta do another shot!"

The look Veronica shoots Dick is exactly the one he wants to. 

"Are you okay?" Logan leans over towards Mac and gets the strangest image of Lilly telling him off for always needing to be the White Knight and smothering everyone. "Really?"

The small smile she gives him, puzzled and pleased all at once, is reassuring. 

"Yeah." It's a small, sharp nod and that's as much as he can expect right now. "I'm good... well, I'm okay."

"We all are, let's keep it that way." Wallace is still glaring. "More friend, less frat, okay?"

It's aimed more at Dick, but Logan feels it and he thinks, maybe, he's not the only one in the room with a White Knight complex. Not for the first time, it makes him wonder.

Makes him wonder if there's a story behind it. In his experience nobody gets to their age being this wholesome, this driven to do good without some deep, dark and dirty story behind it. Some man doing some woman wrong to the tune of a guitar picking out a sad, sad country song. 

"It's just Wallace!" Veronica's voice is suddenly loud. "He doesn't count, you know that."

Logan can't help the little smile. 

"Yeah, thanks Mars!" Wallace grins, even as he makes his protest. "You really know how to make a guy feel special!"

There's a moment, Logan sees it, when she turns around and they both look at each other. Wallace and Veronica. It's warm and friendly and it's something he used to have, so many fucking years ago, when Veronica was smaller and trusted him. 

Until he spat all over that trust and never learned how to get it back. 

"Because he's family." Her eyes gleam. "That's why."

Then again, maybe there is no story, maybe some people don't have skeletons and hidden scars, maybe they live happy, uncomplicated lives, and maybe there is a Santa Clause. He just stopped coming to the 09er district. 

The taxes were too high and the kids weren't good enough. 

Veronica's face when she hangs up the phone is all drama. Logan knows she's playing them even as she tells them they're not allowed to leave. 

"But!" And there is the big reveal, the dramatic flair he loves. "He didn't say stop drinking!"

***

It’s exhausting being in the middle, running interference with people who increasingly don’t want the interference in the first place. One comment here and another there stops Dick from needling Veronica too much, another quickly added laugh makes one of her barbs a little less sharp. 

A little less aimed to perfection. 

Logan’s learning too much about these people, more than he ever wanted to know. Somehow he doesn’t think he’s ever going to ask Dick about that same sex fantasy, but he might just have to find time to ask Mac about hers. 

It’s only with a little pushing, some strict glowering and a lot of persuasion that Veronica finally admits that, yes, it counts if she was undercover for a case.

Goddamn, that counts. 

“I never…” He hasn’t spoken for a while and this seems like just the time. “…thought about sleeping with a teacher.”

He’s not surprised when Dick drinks. He is surprised when Veronica makes Mac drink. Logan decides he really needs to spend more time with people who aren’t on the 09er approved list. 

Especially when they turn right around and make Veronica drink. 

“You’re going down, McKenzie.” Veronica can glare with the best of them. “I will end you.”

“Mr. Rooks?” 

It’s not jealousy, he tells himself, not at all. It has nothing to do with sitting at the lunch table and listening to Shelly and Madison and all the other girls whisper about the man. It certainly has nothing to do with the rumors that had spread when Carrie Bishop had started her story, the rumors that Veronica had suddenly taken too much of an interest in him. 

_She went to his house. Veronica Mars went to his house. She’s so doing him, too. What a wh…_

It’s just concern.

“Isn’t he the sleaze that got Susan Knight pregnant?” That question answers any others he has before he can ask them. “That YOU got fired?”

She was solving the case; it’s as simple as that. Logan breathes easier. 

“It’s not like I wanted to think about it.” Her chin rises just a little bit and he’s tickled that she’s so rankled. “He was hitting on me, with his Mick Jagger and pizza and black satin sheets. I keep trying to forget it.”

“Oh, ew.”

Why Dick’s so grossed out, Logan will never know. He’s had several confessed fantasies about his own step mother, not to mention several of the female teachers of the same age as Mr. Rooks, if not older. 

“What about you, Logan?” When he turns, Veronica is grinning at him. “If she wore a skirt, you thought about it.”

He can’t deny it, she knows him too well. 

“Well.” So he thinks about the worst possible choice he can. “That Miss Rouche. Wow.” 

The look on everyone’s face is worth it. 

***

“Not bad. Not bad.” Dick sits back with his seventh slice of pizza. “Even if it took so long to get here.”

It’s said with a glare towards Mac. 

“Hey.” She defends herself easily. “It’s not my fault there’s very few pizza places around here that make vegan pizza.”

Dick snorts and Logan watches the verbal tennis match flying across the room. He’s a little too full to intervene, but it doesn’t look like he needs to and Veronica keeps frowning at him every time he tries to fence them away. 

“Vegan.” Dick snorts. “What’s the point?”

Mac’s eyebrows rise and her face sets in determination. 

“Well, I’m sorry.” Her voice is flat, as if she’s said this many times before. “I just don’t want to kill animals so I can eat.”

She probably has, Logan realizes, it’s probably a debate they’ve had many times. 

“Ha. It’s the circle of life.” Dick responds easily. “I’ll stop eating animals when they stop eating each other.”

The only thing that really surprises Logan about the debate is that Dick doesn’t make the obvious crude joke. 

“That’s your stock answer, isn’t it?” Mac doesn’t even blink. “Follow the herd. No point walking that path if it hasn’t been beaten down by a million others before you.”

“Hey.” There’s a note of annoyance in Dick’s voice now; Logan can hear it. “There’s a reason most people don’t go down those paths. Because they suck.”

“Oh.” Mac’s eyebrows fall down into a furrow and her eyes narrow. “That’s witty. And such a well thought out argument. I think you might have just changed my mind. Bring on a dead cow. Preferably one that screamed while it was slaughtered.”

“God.” Dick sits up again, leaning forward. “What the hell is your problem? Are your whole family freaks, or is it just you?”

“My family?” Mac challenges. “You’re accusing my family of being freaks? That’s rich. Let’s look at…”

“Whoa, now.” Logan jumps in. “That was some good pizza! Huh?”

Both Mac and Dick sit back, mumbling under their breaths. Any other day and it would be amusing, seeing them like this. Logan thinks he probably would have made some comment about… 

“Man, you two need to find a closet.”

“Wallace!” Veronica hisses. 

“Good pizza.” Logan insists brightly. “Yum.”

“Dude.” Dick shoves him with his knee, his tone a little past annoyed. “Give it a rest.”

“If it’s so good.” Mac continues glaring. “Why aren’t you eating it?”

“We are!” Veronica adds brightly and grabs another slice. “See?”

Her eyes turn to Wallace and Logan knows he’s getting the silent ‘do it or die’ look she’s so good at. Wallace sighs and grabs another slice. Then it’s Logan’s turn and he’s ready, he’s got his defenses up, but they mean nothing when she makes her eyes like little steely points. 

Logan’s stomach protests when he brings the last of the salami slice, segregated in shame from the special boxes next to Mac, up to his mouth. He can see from Veronica’s face that the last thing she wants is to keep eating. 

“Familes.” Dick breaks the silence. “They suck.”

“Yup.” Mac agrees. 

And that, Logan thinks, officially brings the mood plummeting down. Not even the three of them, he, Wallace and Veronica, can continue eating through the stifling weight of it. 

“I never…” Even before Mac finishes her turn, Logan knows it’s going to be bad. “…found out my family lied to me.”

Everyone in the room drinks and Logan has to wonder about Wallace again. 

“I never...” It’s a long, drawn out moment waiting for Dick to finish. “…thought they’d do something so awful.”

Curiously, at least to him, Mac and Wallace don’t drink to that. Logan has to wonder about secrets and lies that don’t turn out that bad, that aren’t dragged down by malice and bitterness and pain for everyone. 

Maybe he’ll leave a plate of cookies out this Christmas. 

But he can’t wait that long to bring cheer, because everyone else in the room is getting dark expressions. The sort of expression that screams _thought_ and there’s really only one thought and they shouldn’t be thinking it.

“I never…” There’s always the old stand by. “…went skinny dipping.”

At least Veronica won’t be drinking; she’s had more than enough alcohol to last her for… 

Logan nearly chokes on the shot that’s already far down his throat when Veronica gives him a saucy little smile and slowly tips her glass up. She shouldn’t surprise him, she shouldn’t, and experience has told him that she’s got more than one trick up her sleeve. 

But he’s not sure he needs the idea of Veronica naked in public, slipping into moonlit water somewhere. Of course it’s moonlit, her pale skin would glow and his mind likes that, the ripples slicing open for her flesh. 

She’s lying just to tease him, it’s the only logical explanation, but even as he thinks it he knows it’s not true. Veronica, even this Veronica, plays by the rules. 

“I never…” Veronica’s voice is high and light and he’s more than interested when she turns directly to Wallace sitting next to her. “…watched Veronica Mars when she went skinny dipping.”

Wallace acts all embarrassed and modest, but the bastard drinks and Logan feels his face setting firm. 

_Dear Santa, I’ve been very good, mostly anyway, please kill Wallace Fennel, thank you so much. Logan Echolls._

“Hey!” There has to be an innocent explanation for it. “Details!”

“Yeah! Details, man!”

And Logan’s suddenly torn on who’s more deserving of his glare, Wallace who saw Veronica naked or Dick, who wants to know about the seeing of Veronica naked. He needs two faces. 

Veronica asked him, once, why he got so jealous and he had to reassure her that it wasn’t that he doubted her, but that he doubted any male mind in her vicinity was thinking anything other than what he was thinking. 

“Are you kidding?” Wallace blanches. “She’s sitting right here and she will hurt me.”

By the look on Veronica’s face, Wallace is completely correct. 

“Okay, okay.” Mac jumps in. “I never got arrested.”

Bloody hell, Logan thinks as he tastes tequila, at this rate he, Dick and Veronica will be passed out on the floor. It’s a little disturbing that the three of them can’t get along, but are so similar. 

***

When he was five, he used to love sitting up late at night when his parents had parties. People would ruffle his hair and grin at him, saying things about chips and old blocks as he passed through the crowd. He’d watch them all, adults with their smiling faces and smiling voices, teeth flashing a bright white, slender wrists that led to slender fingers holding tall glasses, flutes with sparkling champagne that would tickle his nose whenever they’d let him taste it, the liquid spilling over his fingers. 

He’d watch, peeking from around the tall crowds of legs, feeling the soft thread of music wind its way past, watch all night without ever been seen as Aaron would laugh, as he’d reach over and trail a soft hand down his wife’s cheek. That, he’d known it with everything he had at the time, was his real family. The one in the parties, with their smiles and their laughs, their glasses with the magic wines, the soft, gentle touches that made him want to purr. 

When he grew up, he’d think to himself as Maria would finally lead him away and tuck him into bed with a soft warning to stay there, his head softly buzzing and tickling with the sips he’d stolen from everyone’s glasses, he would always have parties where nobody’s glass was ever empty and everyone smiled.

Logan doesn’t know why he can’t remember the way the parties always ended.

With the crowds slowly dying off and the music turned softer and softer, the help coming out of the woodwork to clear away the signs that people had ever been there in the first place, until there was the same group of people, sprawled over the large sofas sighing about how good the night had been. And then the sighs would turn sharper and the voices harder and sometimes there would be yelling and sometimes crashing, but the result would be the same.

Little Logan huddling under large quilts, his tongue sliding out of his mouth to lick at his wrists, to taste the last of the happiness that had just evaporated. 

They have, Logan thinks wryly, quite successfully entered the morose part of the day. It’s too late to be called early, but it’s nowhere near evening, probably somewhere nearing mid afternoon. And all five of them are too drunk to care. 

Dick glowers at the glass he cradles in his hands, resting it on his stomach as he leans back on the couch, his legs sprawled forward and out. Wallace is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Mac is slowly rocking back and forth, her mouth whispering silently and Logan wonders if she even knows what she’s saying. 

Veronica is watching them all and sometimes, if he times it right, their eyes meet. He sees the fuzzy, unfocused way her eyes land on him, the way her face seems to be sliding half a second behind her neurons order it to move, sees the way she can’t seem to forget everyone else even though she’s drunk. 

He wants to tell her to quit it, to stop drinking before she hurts herself, but he can’t seem to find the words. 

And, really, none of them particularly want to be not drunk right now, so she’s actually fulfilling the day’s quota. 

“I never…” They all jump a little when Veronica speaks. “…found myself in a strange room searching for my underwear, crying and asking how it happened.”

The tone of her voice hurts, it’s that lost little girl that’s too stubborn to ask for help, that won’t tell you she’s hurting even when tears are pouring down her cheeks. Logan hates that voice, hates it with everything he has, but it’s not the voice that punches all the air out of him. 

It’s her words. 

With one simple statement, a challenge in a game that stopped being fun, she’s said more to him about that day than she ever has before. She’d told him about Lamb and how he’d treated her, about moving on and never looking back, but she’d never gone into detail about her own reactions. 

Private, to the very last. 

Something happens and it takes him a moment to register what it is. The room has been divided all day, Logan and Dick on one side, Veronica, Wallace and Mac on the other. With one quick, brutal slice, Veronica has cleanly changed that division. 

He, Dick and Wallace can only watch as the two girls share a look and then drink. 

It’s so small he almost misses it, the tightening of Dick’s posture next to him, the way Dick stops breathing and the shaking of his hands. Logan doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say right now. Mac is gasping from her shot and Veronica is shaking.

He wants to ask her how she can throw something like that into the air and still breathe. 

“I don’t wanna play this game no more.” Even Wallace sounds breathless. “Not like this.”

Logan can’t do anything but agree. 

“They… they found them, you know.” Mac’s voice is small and no, Logan doesn’t know, he’s not sure if he wants to know. “My clothes. The police found them in the stairwell, abandoned.”

Then he understands what Veronica has just done. She hasn’t divided the room, she hasn’t locked herself and Mac behind a ten foot barbed wire electric fence with rifles pointing straight at any man who dares step forward. 

She’s opened the gates, she’s made sure that there are people inside and, for some unknown reason; she’s chosen him, Dick and Wallace to be there with them. 

“They tried to give them back, like I’d wear them home or something.” Mac’s voice sounds loud in the quiet. “I couldn’t look at them. I… I… I told my mom to burn them.”

He wonders what she’d do with a bag of shirts with stains on the back, sticky red lines in a row, buried so far in a bottom drawer not even the help could find them. It doesn’t matter anymore, really, because even that is gone, burned in a fire that was only bitter because he didn’t set it himself. 

“I cut my dress into little pieces.” Veronica speaks before he does. “Then I put them in a trash can and set it on fire.”

The air is thick and charged and no one is moving. He wants to move, he wants to slide off the couch, pool around the floor and move over to Veronica, wants to be able to pull her in to a hug. She’s shaking, like she was on the roof of the Grand, so fast it almost looks like she’s still. 

It’s like a gruesome little club, all of them sitting lost in their own horrific memories. There are no cards or keys, jackets or secret handshakes. Just headstones and horror, guilt and blood and no one really wants to join, but here they all are anyway. 

And no one is moving. 

“Yeah.” 

Logan hears Mac’s whisper and knows there really isn’t anything else to say. 

“I never…” The voice is so small, so close to tears, it takes Logan a second to recognize it as Veronica. “…drank until I passed out.”

The air is thick and charged and no one is moving, but he pushes himself forward and stops her from drinking. No way in hell is he going to let her drink to that. Wallace is there, too, keeping Veronica’s glass on the table. 

And so, Logan’s a little stunned to realize, is Dick. 

“That’s not your shot, Mars.”

It’s not that Dick is too stupid to put it all together, he isn’t. And it’s not that Dick wasn’t there in the aftermath of Veronica’s inquisition, because he was, he was there when everyone questioned each other as to the _why_ of it.

It’s more to do with the fact that Logan didn’t know Dick _cared_ either way. 

***

He’s been keeping an eye on her all day, making sure she’s not too overwhelmed, too distraught, too _anything_ , watching her out of the corner of his eye just to make sure. He should have seen it coming. But she was so quiet, so still, so _together_. 

Mac simmers like the eye of a storm he realizes too late. 

“I didn’t know.” She whispers. “How could I not know?”

It’s the question that defines them all. So many things buried under the surface, that no one gets to see, things so glaringly obvious that they couldn’t, shouldn’t be missed. 

“He was my brother.” Dick sounds a little amazed, just a little disbelieving of the words coming out of his mouth. “Why didn’t I know?”

“Nobody knew.” Veronica whispers to the floor. “That was the point.”

_It was my fault, Logan, I said I’d told my dad and he… and he… the plane..._

He’s not expecting the sudden shift next to him, the movement out of the heavy thickness, and the snap to attention as Dick sits up and stares at Veronica. 

“He talked to you, didn’t he?” It’s hunger in Dick’s voice. “What’d he say, Ronnie? What did…?”

“Leave her alone, man.” 

Wallace is faster than Logan at coming to her defense. Logan’s too busy watching her, looking at the way her face crumples and ducks, the way he can actually see her defenses sliding off her face and collapsing. 

“Stay out of this, Fennel, you weren’t even there, but Ronnie was.”

Hunger rides Dick’s voice. The need to hear one last redeeming thing, one little clue as to what happened, why, and the elusive knowledge that they didn’t mean it, that they were sorry. 

“Veronica?” Mac understands it, knows the greed of it. “What happened?”

They’re waiting for six words that will never come, no matter who asks, it doesn’t matter who pleads for them and how much they need it. 

_I never meant to hurt you._

“I was there.” He speaks because there’s nothing else to do, Veronica’s falling apart before them and they don’t even notice it. “And he wasn’t making much sense. Just drop it.”

“Verrrrrronica.”

Or maybe Dick does notice it, maybe he sees the way she’s cracking, rocking forwards and shaking her head, trying to dislodge the memories. Maybe Dick needs to push it to the surface so he can see it for himself. 

“He was my brother and I deserve to know.”

Veronica snaps like an animal, cornered and trapped, desperate and out maneuvered 

“Know what, Dick?” Her head flies up and her eyes radiate heat and pain. “What do you want to know? That he laughed? That he bragged about killing all those people? Is it easier to know that?”

It’s the first time any of them have admitted to the reason why they’re all there.

Did you hear? Cassidy Casablancas killed a busload of people and blew up a plane. He tried to kill a girl, hurt another, and then they spent the day drinking with his brother. 

“You want to hear how cocky he was?” Veronica continues, unaware of the reality that’s straining at the walls, trying to get back into their alcohol induced avoidance. “Listing the things he’d done? He was so damned proud of himself. That he checked everything off his list, like he expected a pat on the back? Like he wanted my blessing, christ, my _fucking_ admiration for pulling it off. Is that what you wanted, Dick?”

Dick presses himself back into the couch, the air well and truly deflated out of him. 

“No.”

But even Logan can see that Veronica isn’t finished. 

“That’s not enough?” Her legs scramble as she stands up, towering over them. “How about the fact that he laughed at me? That he delighted in giving me sixty seconds to call my dad before blowing up the plane? That he didn’t even blink when I thought my dad was dead?”

He’s heard the words before, in different ways, Logan spent that night answering questions at the hotel and the next day with Veronica at the station giving statements. He knows the way her face remains still, held tight, but her hands shake and her teeth bite her lip when she gets to the part where Keith didn’t answer his phone and she had to watch the explosion. 

“That he told me how marvelous I was playing right into his hands? That he bragged about how clever he was hiding the fact that he raped me?” Everyone flinches, that one word slapping them all in the face. “You wanna guess how marvelous that made me feel?”

He can’t stand it anymore; he can’t stand to watch her like that. 

“Veronica.” She’s quivering when he reaches her, shaking under his hands. “Stop it.”

But she doesn’t even react and he’s not sure if she knows who’s there or who isn’t anymore. 

“Is that enough, Dick?” Bitten out, they shudder all the way through her. “Is it? What more do you want?”

Dick wants what they all want at times like this. 

“Why? Why did he do all that?”

There is no answer to that. Even Dick knows it, Logan can see it in the hopeless way he stares, the lost look in his eyes, as begins to list off reasons that made Cassidy’s life hell. He didn’t know she’d been keeping a list, but he should have. It doesn’t surprise him her mind doesn’t ever stay still. 

Wallace is there, next to them, and Logan doesn’t know how there’s any space to breathe, the three of them standing so close, as if he and Wallace are holding Veronica up just by being there. 

“There wasn’t anything to make it all better!” Veronica chokes. “He found his way out and now he’s gone.”

Harsh words, but true. Logan almost envies Cassidy that release.

“I would’ve done something. Something. Anything.” It’s the mantra that makes it into all of their lives, eventually. And Dick means it as much as any of them ever did. “Didn’t he know that? I would have hurt that fucker, made him pay...”

Logan doesn’t doubt it. 

“Would you?” But apparently Veronica does. “Because your history isn’t that stellar, Dick, trust me.”

There’s something in the catch of her voice when she says it, something that makes him raise his eyes and really look at Dick’s face. It’s an accusation, a rough little patch of skin rubbed raw. The way Dick flinches chills Logan, chills him further than he thought possible. 

“It’s not your fault.” The words are spat out. “Isn’t that what you wanted to hear, Dick? Is it? It’s not your fault.”

Only, she doesn’t sound like she means it.

She sounds about five shots from knowing exactly what she’s saying. Logan knows that she wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want all her closely held secrets flying out in the middle of a rant. 

She certainly wouldn’t want that next shot she’s reaching for and, even if she did, she really has had enough. He manages to get it away from her. 

“Not your fault, even if you walked him to each baseball practice. Huh? Shook Woody’s hand and wished them a good game?” It’s harsh and brutal and Logan can see the effect it’s having on Dick, see the way the thoughts are drilling into him. “It’s not like you locked him in a room with the Mayor, is it? It’s not like you egged the Mayor on, is it?”

And something about her words hits home. Logan doesn’t want to understand them, doesn’t want to see the guilt click over in Dick’s eyes.

“Ronnie.” Logan doesn’t want to see the way Dick stands up, his hands outreached, as if pleading for something. “Stop. Okay? Just stop, I’m sorry… I…”

Logan’s blood freezes at the apology. 

“You can’t blame Woody, Dick. Just because Beaver got all drunk and slutty.”

They’re mean and hateful and just wrong, Veronica’s words, he knows it. They all know it. Mac knows it, frozen in the armchair with tears running down her cheeks and staring up at them. Wallace knows it and, by the look on his face, he knows exactly why Veronica’s blaming Dick. 

“Veronica!”

It’s less blame than it is trying to bring her back, trying to calm her down. He’s not sure what she sees in his eyes when she looks at him, but whatever it is, Veronica starts crying. 

Real, broken down, exhausted crying, like it was two nights ago on the roof.

Her shoulders drop and she keeps looking at him, her eyes boring deep into his and Logan wants to make it better, wants to know how. He doesn’t even care about anyone else in the room anymore. 

“No.” But Veronica finds her own answer when she looks away, looks past him to Dick and makes her voice ice cold. “What the Mayor did wasn’t your fault. But what happened to me was.”

“Veronica.” He tries again, pulling her in with soft hands on her shoulders, and all he can seem to remember is her name. “Veronica.”

“Don’t touch me.” It’s like a slap when she pulls away, shrinking into herself. “Logan, just… don’t.”

_Even if it was you._

He feels something rising in his gut and knows, just knows, that she doesn’t need to be here for it. 

“Get her out of here.” He’s not sure how he keeps his voice calm, or even if it is, but Wallace nods quickly. “Mac, too. Take them to her room or something.”

Thin, thread bare walls that don’t hide anything, not even the sound of water through the pipes, the same small spaces he’d been praising only hours before. It’s more than likely she’ll hear, that they all will, but Logan is nearly beyond the point of caring. 

When he’s sure that they’re gone, out of sight and hopefully out of earshot, he turns back to Dick. 

“What is she talking about?”

There’s a quick shake of Dick’s head. 

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Logan blinks. 

“Bullshit.” His jaw aches with the strength he’s using to bite down. “I think you know exactly what she’s talking about and I think you better fucking tell me or I swear to god, Dick…”

“Logan?” It’s fear he sees in Dick’s eyes, fear and guilt and something else. “Calm down, man. Okay?”

“No.” The answer comes simple, simpler than anything else.

Logan’s insides are screaming, rolling around, pulsing and throbbing with something too much like the need to inflict, to cause, to _pass on_ pain. His outsides, he knows too well, are quiet. 

Logan knows quiet. He knows deathly still. He knows the calm before the storm. He learned well about the absence of sound when it spreads through the air and releases tension, ratcheting it up until salt oozes out over his tongue. 

He’s just never been on this side of it. 

“What did she mean?” He starts with the obvious. “About Beaver getting drunk? That’s not like her; she wouldn’t just say that…”

Dick’s shoulders slump and his eyes turn down. 

“That was for me, I deserved it, I…” Something tears at the sides of Logan’s slowly growing anger and he tries to brush it off, he doesn’t have the energy to feel pity or kinship for anyone else’s guilt and regret. “That’s what I said. Last year, when she was asking about that night, about Shelly’s party, that’s what I said. I didn’t know then, I swear it, I didn’t know…”

He feels it quivering in his muscles, like a horse held still at the reigns, bristling and shaking with the need to move. As Logan steps forward, Dick steps back. 

“She was asking about that night and I told her not to blame everyone else.” The words come out rushed, sticky with fear. “I told her it wasn’t our fault if she got all drunk and slutty.”

“She was drugged, Dick!” He can’t believe it; the sound of it tastes bitter like coppery blood in his mouth. “She was drugged and raped!”

And Veronica didn’t say anything to him, not once. 

_Please, Veronica, try and be nice._

“I know.” It’s gasped out and then sucked back with a hiss. “I mean, I didn’t know then, but we figured it out. After she went pschitzo and mauled everyone, we talked, you know? Madison was bitching about how Veronica made such a big deal about that stupid drink and Sean was bitching about how she gave him hell for getting those drugs in TJ and…”

Logan’s jaw tightens. 

“And you were wondering whatever happened to that dose you tried to slip Madison?” He breathes slowly as Dick nods. “Right. Is that it? Is that why she blames you? The case of the missing fucking mickey?”

“Nobody thought he’d do it.” That’s not what he wants to hear. “I didn’t think… fuck, Logan, it was Beaver, man, timid little _Beave._ He wouldn’t ever… I didn’t know.”

_It’s only Dick, he’s a good guy deep down. Just give him a chance._

They’re circling each other in the small room, back and forth. Logan isn’t a calm man, he’s never described himself or anyone else as particularly in control of his emotions or actions, but he likes to think that deep down he holds some small, meager iota of self-restraint. More so than he’s seen or ever been shown by others. 

He’s quick when he needs to be, agile and wiry, the ability to duck and weave sudden physical advances have given him the upper hand when he’s making them. His hands twist in the front of Dick’s shirt; pulling him up and pushing him back into the wall. 

Size doesn’t mean anything in a fight, his father taught him that. 

“I didn’t…” Dick whines it, his face turning red. “Man, ease up. I didn’t fucking know!”

Logan tightens his hold on the collar and watches the skin of Dick’s neck pinch in the cloth. 

He has Dick against the wall, his left shoulder pinning Dick’s right one, his forearm and elbow lodged firmly in Dick’s sternum and his fingers clenched tightly in the twisted neck of the shirt. If he leans in much closer, Logan is going to start causing pain. 

It should scare him, just a little that he can measure the right amount of pressure to cause. 

Enough to threaten, enough to scare, but not enough to leave visible marks in the morning. 

Apparently father does know best. 

“From the start.” He manages. “Tell me what happened.”

“The party was getting kinda slow, you know, and then Ronnie stumbled by, practically fell in our laps. We thought she was wasted, that she’d had too much to drink. We were just having fun.”

Logan chokes. 

“Fun?”

_Like sex with unconscious girls, fun?_

It’s amazing Veronica even talks to him at all, let alone Dick.

“Just joking around, it didn’t mean anything. You gotta believe me, Logan, it wasn’t anything, just some flirting and stuff. Then she got all dopey and sick and saying she wanted to go home. And it was Ronnie, even you hated her back then…”

Oh, god, he can’t hear this. 

“So you decided what? That you’d get her raped? She was sixteen!”

Logan can’t stop himself, his hands tighten and he pulls Dick forward only to slam him back against the wall hard enough for Dick’s skull to bounce.

“No, no. It wasn’t like that. Someone handed her a shot glass and told her that’d make her feel better, all she had to do was drink it. And she did.” Dick’s voice is a sickening cross between pleading and defense; as if there was anything he could say or do to get himself out of it, anything that could make Logan back down. “It was like a game, see what we could get her to do, how many shots we could get her to drink.”

He can’t take it, Logan has to let go and back away. If he doesn’t, if he doesn’t put any space between them, there won’t be much left of Dick. He can feel it in the tightness of his knuckles.

_What’s the big problem, Veronica? Why do you hate him so much? Or is it me? Do you just want to make this whole thing harder on me?_

“They got her to make out with Shelly and, sure, yeah she kept moaning and saying she wanted out, but she didn’t get up…”

He has to pace, he has to move, has to walk one end of the room to the other ringing his hands just to stop himself doing anything else. 

Backup whines in the corner.

“Then it got kinda bad, you know? It wasn’t just us, there were guys there I didn’t even know. And it was all ‘lift up your skirt, honey’ and ‘pull down your dress, sugar’, but then she totally passed out and those guys were getting eager.”

There’s a catch in Dick’s voice and Logan is so far past caring that all he can do is stop still and stare. 

“And you let it happen?”

“No, man, no.” Fast and rushed, Dick practically prays the words. “Sean and Beave and me, we got her out of there. I picked her up and we took her to one of the rooms.”

_Somehow I ended up in the one of the guest bedrooms…_

There’s a shudder that goes through Dick’s body; Logan recognizes it as acceptance, as the body’s way of preparing itself for whatever’s about to happen. The slacker the muscles, the less the blow stings when it comes. 

“Everyone was watching and we were drunk, fuck Logan, I was stupid. I was a stupid kid, I didn’t think, I didn’t…” He watches Dick’s eyes slide back down to the floor and back up. “I joked that Beaver should… that she was closest he’d ever get to a willing girl.”

Logan breathes in and closes his eyes. 

_If that’s what you want, Logan, I’ll be nice to him. For you._

“I should kill you, I should fucking kill you.” When he opens his eyes, he can’t really see anything but Dick’s face and it sucks the spit right out of his mouth, makes it dry enough to have his tongue rasp along the edges of it. “You served her up on a platter and he raped her!”

“I know.” Dick doesn’t even argue. “I know.”

“With your blessing!” Logan surges forward again and it doesn’t escape his notice that there’s no resistance; that Dick isn’t fighting back as his mouth falls open and he gasps for air again. “Why? Tell me why? Why the hell couldn’t you have left her alone? Left her in a room full of people that could have helped her?”

“Nobody thought he’d do it.” It’s past reasoning now, a desperate echo. “I swear it was just a joke. Who’d have thought the Beave would do that? You would’ve trusted him with your grandma! Better…”

Dick swallows around his own words before continuing. 

“Better him than a room full of guys egging each other on, right? I didn’t know!”

Logan’s no stranger to admitting things without admitting them, the blameless admissions of the guilty. His brain picks over Dick’s frantic recollections of events. 

“Did you? I swear to god, Dick, tell me now. Did you touch her?”

Dick trembles and his eyes slide to the side as he ties to shrink into himself and away from Logan. 

“Tell me!”

They both turn when the sound of angry footsteps approach. It’s Veronica, her eyes blazing and her cheeks bright red with tears and anger. Logan feels his own fury melt when he sees her. 

“Tell me, Dick.” She doesn’t even look at Logan as she pushes something into Dick’s face. “Was this him?”

Logan steps back, he doesn’t have a choice. Nothing stops Veronica when she’s set on her goals and this is her fight, not his. 

“Was it?” If Dick was feeling guilty before, Logan doesn’t want to know what the broken sound of her voice is doing to him. He hopes it hurts. “Or was it Duncan? Because I can’t remember!”

_You can’t imagine it, Logan, it’s… it’s not good, but to know it was just Duncan, that it wasn’t bad. It’s like I can breathe again…_

“Jesus, Ronnie! What the hell is that?”

Veronica shakes and her words are clipped, bitten out and cold as she describes in detail what’s on the photo. Logan hears the words and can’t quite believe what she’s saying. 

Can’t believe that she took them; that she kept them. His eyes fall slowly to the hand she’s not holding up, the photos she’s keeping in reserve to reveal one by one to Dick and break him all the more.

Logan can’t quite bring himself to stop her doing that. 

He sees something hanging from the edge of the photos. A small black cloth dangling, forgotten, and he reaches out to take it. There’s something familiar about it, something he can’t quite remember. 

When his fingers close around it and he brings it up to his face, twisted around his forefinger, he knows. 

His tongue floods with the taste of salt and tequila. A girl in a white dress lying on a sun lounge, her neck open as he licks the heated skin and she makes a sound in the back of her throat. 

She tosses a photo to the ground and he stumbles back into reality. 

Logan knows Veronica loves her camera, that she takes better photographs than some of the supposed professionals out there earning money for snap shots; he’s seen most of her work. 

What he sees on the garish square laying on the carpet isn’t professional standard. It’s blurry and out of focus, the angle is all wrong and the light isn’t up to scratch. 

“I don’t know!” Dick gasps. “Jesus, I don’t know!”

It’s a beginner’s photo, his realization sucker punches him, and the sort of thing a first timer would take. 

“Veronica, stop it!” She turns to him and he sees her face break. “Did you…? My god, Veronica, did you keep these all this time?”

It’s her first case file and probably the only one she’ll never solve to her satisfaction. 

***


	12. twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, when exactly did everyone decide I was such a big slut? When I asked you to stop? When I tried to get away? When I couldn't even keep my eyes open and guys were touching me? When you carried me into a room and tossed some condoms on the bed? Then?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R (dark themes, a few choice words).   
> **Character/Pairing:** Veronica, Logan, ensemble. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things.   
> **Wordcount:** 8,384.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** Jerry Springer would kill to have her on his show.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Veronica's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part twelve**  
*~*~*~*

Veronica looks at the choker in his hand and stops breathing. 

"Put it down, Logan."

She wants to reach out and grab the it, snatch it from him, to rip the photo from his hands and make sure his eyes never slide over the image on it. It's an overwhelmingly selfish urge that surges through her. 

It burns her, scalding the insides of her veins, the memory of waking up that morning. Blinking herself awake to the aches and horrors of realization, the gut sinking, the way her hands shook and her knees trembled. And afterwards, the way chills ran through her whole body, crippling her lungs and the backs of her ribs, making her gasp and run for a shower where the water was never hot enough to do anything but make her skin bright red and swollen. 

She remembers the way she'd been too afraid to run her own hands over her body, too afraid to touch the marks she didn't recognize, as if acknowledging them made the whole thing real. Too afraid to feel anything she shouldn't. So she'd cried instead. 

Those photos, the last thing she'd done before burning everything and cutting her hair, she'd buried them in impossibly complicated file directories of her old desktop before her dad had gotten her the laptop. She used to lie awake at night and watch the glow of her screen, waiting until silence reigned, until she could swoop in and pull them up, eyes glazing over and teeth biting the tip of her tongue, and then frantically purge the computer of any trace of them before morning.

A habit that drove her mad, weeks of it, of not sleeping and not taking her eyes or her mind off them, until the carpet had been laid and she'd discovered a way to get rid of them. Poor quality, unfocused, shoddy photos that wouldn't show or prove anything to anyone, except herself. 

Having them underneath her, buried but still there, was a torture she'd relished. Gone, but nowhere near forgotten. It took months before she'd stopped the fingernails of her brain picking those old scabs, months where she stared up and thought down and asked a deity she didn't believe in the questions of _who_ and _how could they_ and _why_ , _why me_ , _please, just why_.

It got easier, she'd known it would, everyone always said things got easier, she learned to hear but not listen to the taunts, and she learned to look at the boys at school without tracing the line of their teeth with her eyes. She learned to smile back when other boys smiled at her. Kissing Troy and kissing Leo were experiments that proved her right. 

It got easier. 

And Logan, then Logan came and it wasn't an experiment, the way he'd kissed her hard and stolen her breath and she'd laughed and grinned and pulled him back even harder. That was no experiment, that was a big _fuck you_ and an even bigger _I can do this, I can enjoy it_. 

She remembers his hands on her, roaming and hungry, and the shivers they'd sent up her spine, good ones. She remembers the way his mouth would seal over her neck and she'd gasp right out through her skin, her muscles twitching with the pleasure of it. 

She remembers their bodies burning and pulling and pushing and gasping and kissing and licking and stealing each other's breath and laughing as they each tried to drive the other wild.

She remembers Logan telling her, once, in a whispered awed voice that he loved her face all flushed and glassy, her hair mussed, loved that just making out made her look _thoroughly fucked_ and he couldn't wait to get her there and she remembers the jolt of electricity those words had spun through her. 

It had changed, that desperation, that abandonment, the lack of care or concern just diving into need, and it had all changed that day when he learned the truth. No matter how he tried to hide it, it changed. Hesitation and a worried look in his eye became the norm and he never twisted his hand in her hair and _pulled_ as hard as he used to. 

And over that summer, no matter how far things went, somebody stopped them. Sometimes it was her and sometimes it was him, but they played at making out and it really didn't matter how many sticky fingerprints he left on the seam of her jeans, because neither of them lost their pants and it was really all for nothing. 

Veronica doesn't want the first time he touches the inside of her naked thigh to be tainted by a blurry crime photo taken with shaking hands. 

That image burned inside his skull is almost too raw to think about. Wondering each time they go a little further if his hand hesitates because he's thinking about it will kill her, analyzing each movement he makes and wondering if he's making a tally of her reactions. 

"Veronica." She can hear the concern when he says her name, even and calm, wary as if he's approaching a wild animal. "It's okay."

The months after that morning had spent being shattered by the words of everyone she'd thought were her friends. Rebuilding had taken more than she'd thought possible, but she'd done it, long and hard and painful. 

Logan was the first to be forgiven. 

"Please?" Her voice can't quite stop itself from begging him. "I'm asking you to put it down."

She's thought about that before, forgiving him was also long and hard and painful, and she thinks it started in the lobby of a hotel. The day he slid down and made himself weak in front of her, when he opened up a vein and let her see it. 

Their eyes meet and she can see him trying to decide what to do. 

His eyes are dark, so dark they sometimes seem bottomless and she remembers getting lost in them more times than she can remember, watching them dilate as she kissed his face and pressed up into his body. Those weeks, hot and flushed and desperate, tongues and mouths and words of need and _now_ and _oh yeah, right there, right, oh my god._

It pulls at her, because she's not going to have that back if he sees those photos, he's going to change again and he's going to pity her again and worry and treat her like fine porcelain that's already cracked.

The very thought of it makes her bite the inside of her cheek.

She watches his knees bend slightly and his arm drop forward, just enough to let the photo flutter away from his fingers and land on the table. His eyes don't follow it; they watch her. 

Eyes so dark they seem black sometimes. Black as she closed the door in his face wearing nothing but a robe and the taste of bile, black as he knelt in the sand at her feet, black as she told him he was too dangerous to stand next to. 

There's a sound, a shuffle to the left and she looks down the hallway to see Mac and Wallace standing there, watching them. Mac's eyes are puffy and swollen and her face is blotched, but she's standing straight and Wallace has his hand on the small of her back. 

Veronica breathes in. 

"Here." She takes Logan's hand and pulls them both steps away from the silent man against the wall. "Just here."

His mouth falls open when she touches their hands to her hip and curls his fingers around the edge of her bone, they don't break eye contact and she doesn't wince when the split nail stings like a bitch. 

"Bruises. Like someone held me down." It's a second of holding her breath before she can continue. "Or just held too tight. I don't know."

She doesn't need to look down, she feels his fingers like branding irons pushing into the divots that aren't there but she can find in her sleep. 

"Veronica." He leans forward and whispers into her forehead. 

"And here." His wrist resists the pressure, but she forces his hand down anyway, slowly, scraping the front of her leg and then closer, until it rests just inside. "A hickey, from..."

It's then that her lips tremble again. 

"I don't know. I don't know how or who anymore. But there."

Logan pulls out of her grasp, bringing both his hands up to cup her face, pulling her forward and kissing her forehead again. His lips are warm and soft and she leans into him, closing her eyes.

"You don't have to do this, Veronica." He nudges her face up with his chin. "I love you."

She hears the gasps in the room, but she doesn't care. 

_You're like my best friend ever, Veronica Mars, I love you, you know?  
God, Lilly, dramatic much? I love you, too._

_I love you, sweetheart.  
I love you, Mommy._

_Goodbye Veronica. I love you, always have, always will.  
You better._

Those three words are easy and cheap and that's not what it's about, not anymore. 

"And I trust you."

His eyes glint and she knows she's hit home. 

"Ro..." But there's a voice coming from the side and they have to acknowledge everyone else. "Veronica, I'm sorry."

"No." Forgiveness is easy to give Logan; he works for it. "Dick, you don't get to do that."

Logan's hands slide on her neck as she spins and they end up on her shoulders as he stands behind her. 

"You don't get to use my name like that, like it's all better. It's not, nowhere near it. Just call me Ronnie."

Dick flinches like he's been hit and it gives her some small measure of satisfaction, but that's not enough. She's too tired right now, too worn out and weary. 

Emotional breakdowns are just exhausting. 

Veronica has no idea how she keeps forgetting that fact. If there was anything she'd learn in her life, she thinks that should be something that stays with her. 

"I need to sit down."

Logan catches her just as her knees give out. 

She lets him. 

"Girl." Wallace says into her right ear as she feels him coming to her other side. "You're gonna end up killing yourself, you keep this shit up."

"Yeah." She can't argue as they half carry, half push her towards the couch. "Maybe."

It's Logan that slips down next to her and she looks up to see Wallace standing still for just a second before sweeping his arms over the table and picking up the glasses they'd left abandoned. He carries them to the kitchen and Mac follows. 

She knows if Logan weren't here, then Wallace would be next to her, holding her hand, offering his shoulder to cry on. There's someone in her life for all occasions. And if Logan or Wallace weren't here, then there'd be Mac and she's not sure if Mac would be quite so proprietary, quite so needful to take care of her like she's a little damsel in distress. But Mac's the closest female friend she's had in years and even she's not so blind as to fail to realize why. The point is she'd be here. 

They all would, in some form or another, at some time or another, just not together. 

There's something all too eerie and surreal about sitting back in the couch, her bones limp and motionless, just watching everyone else scurry around. It's her apartment, her space, her separate friends, and for the first time she remembers, they're moving as a coherent whole. 

***

Wallace knows the apartment; he's just as comfortable shuffling mugs out of the cupboard and measuring spoonfuls of coffee into the machine as she is. Mac's a little less sure, but she's trying, hovering around Wallace in the kitchen as they rinse glasses and navigate around each other. 

Logan has switched fully into protective possessive mode, hovering next to her and running his hand over her arm and down to her wrist. Her leg runs along his, they're sitting so close, pushed together. She feels how warm he is and likes it. 

"Ronnie..." She hears the name stick in Dick's throat and hopes to hell that it always does. "I didn't know, I..."

She laughs, low and amused and slightly bitter. 

"That's right, you didn't know." Her head rolls on her neck until she feels the slightly rough couch material cushion her cheek, until she can open her eyes and look at him sitting awkwardly across from her. "You still don't. You have no fucking clue what you did to me. Do you?"

It would be easier, she thinks, so much easier if she could just hate him. If she could just let all the anger and bitterness coalesce in her belly, let it form a tight little ball of resentment that she could use. 

God help her, she can't. She just can't do it. He's Dick Casablancas and no matter the despicable things he's done, she's just spent four years in high school with him and she's seen enough sides of him that made her smile and she can't forget them that easily. 

"Do you know what Duncan told me about that night? He said I was there, he said I smiled at him, that I knew it was him. You'd think that would make me feel better, wouldn't you?"

Somewhere there's the feel of Logan's fingers tightening against her arm and the warmth of a cup being pressed into her hands, but she keeps her eyes firmly set on Dick and doesn't wait for an answer. 

"Maybe it did, for a while. It doesn't now. Because I don't remember it, I don't remember waking up and seeing Duncan, I don't remember reaching out and touching him. And I sure as hell don't remember saying yes."

Those words are hard to get out, somehow, those secret and dark little words she'd held. Even in the months that followed Duncan's revelations, the months she'd trained herself to remember the word _consensual_ and forget the other that had first taken its place. Her own personal battle with what had happened. She doesn't remember saying yes and she believes Duncan too much to question it. She has to. 

"It makes me wonder if I was awake for anything else. If I knew Cassidy was there and realized what was happening. I don't remember saying no, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. I don't remember trying to fight, but I woke up with bruises." 

There are four too many people in the room hearing this for her to be comfortable, five if she's brutally honest, but she's the one that started this honesty kick and she's not going to back out now.

"What do you think, Dick?" He twitches when she calls him on it. "Did I cry when it happened? You were feeding me shots, right? I must have been awake for that. Did I say anything then? Was I laughing? Or was I asking for help and people were ignoring me even then?"

"Yes."

The word hits her full force; slams into her and makes her gasp. 

"What?" Veronica feels her chest tighten and has to put her mug down. "What...?"

She can't get out anything else and Dick doesn't meet her eyes, his head ducking as he keeps speaking. 

"You kept saying no." His voice is so soft she can barely hear it; it's not the usual bluster she's used to from him, not the frenzied defense and excuse she'd expected. "You tried to push us away, but you were too far gone."

She can't hear this; she can't... 

"You fucking..."

"Logan." Her fingers hold his hand tightly as he tries to pull away. "Don't. I need to hear this, if it doesn't happen now, it never will."

By some miracle, her words work and he listens, sitting back. He's not anywhere close to relaxed; she can feel him bristling next to her, ready to pounce. Her eyes look up and over to see Wallace watching with dark, narrowed eyes and she shakes her head at him, too. 

She turns back to Dick and her voice cracks just a little. 

"Didn't anyone listen?"

He shakes his head and it hurts, it just hurts to see it. At the time her head pounded with the possibility that there'd been people who'd seen and not done anything. Now it's confirmed and it's ten times worse. 

"They laughed." Dick stops and takes a breath, glancing quickly at Logan and then back to her. "We... we laughed. You wanted to go home and we fed you shots. We got you to make out with a girl."

The words _it was kinda hot_ flicker behind his eyes and she dares him to say it, her eyes dare him to even continue thinking it. 

He doesn't. 

"Then you stopped complaining and you just took it." Dick's shoulders are slumped and his hands are held loosely in his lap, the only thing that seems able to hold itself up is his head, and only then so he can look at her face when he speaks. "Stopped complaining, stopped fighting. You just stopped."

Her fingers claw at the seat of the couch. 

"So, when exactly did everyone decide I was such a big slut?" The venom surprises her a little; she's been almost calm until now. "When I asked you to stop? When I tried to get away? When I couldn't even keep my eyes open and guys were touching me? When you carried me into a room and tossed some condoms on the bed? Then?"

What she doesn't say, what Veronica has no words and barely any thoughts to process is the very _idea_ that makes her toes curl, the one where she's terrified that Duncan was telling the truth. That he did find her smiling and she did reach out to him and that, somewhere, vaguely in the depth of her drugged up, hazy state she'd been aware of what had come before. That the cells of her body had woken up and she'd done nothing but blindly follow through with what had been started without her permission. 

Jerry Springer would kill to have her on his show.

She doesn't say that she hopes Duncan was lying and that she doesn't know exactly what that makes her, what it means when she hopes Duncan did something unthinkably horrific and then lied to her, just because it might make the possibility of anything else easier to deal with. 

Jerry Springer would probably kill Oprah if she asked him to. 

"It wasn't then." Dick rushes on, desperate to say something. "It was the week after and we had a party and someone said, someone said they heard you were with Duncan and..."

"Oh god." Logan's hand slips from hers as he sits up suddenly, bending at the waist and cradling his head in his hands. "Oh, shit."

Veronica's not sure if she can handle this. 

"What?" She doesn't even know if she wants to reach out and touch Logan, to pull his hands away from his face. "What about then?"

"I said no." Logan does look up. "I said there was no way he'd do that with you. And then... then..."

She's going to scream. 

"And then Beaver asked if there was anyone you -weren't- with." Dick says with a blank face. "And we all laughed. It was the first time he'd stood out by himself made a joke like that, so we ran with it."

"Oh." She chokes back a sob. "Well, congratu-fucking-lations to Beaver, then. Hi-fives!"

Cassidy Casablancas is going to haunt her from the grave. She should have pulled the trigger. 

"Veronica..."

Logan's hand comes to rest on the back of her shoulder blades and she lets it stay there for a second, lets herself feel how warm it is. Then she shrugs hard and forces him away. 

"I swear to god, Logan, if any of you say you're sorry or that you didn't know one more time..." There's nothing else to say, nothing that could be threatened to make up for it. All the fight falls away and leaves her groundless and empty. "I was treated like the school whore for years. Do you understand that? A whole school!"

She rocks and then she does something she'd promised herself she wouldn't do again for the sake of her sanity. She breathes in and pushes it down, lets it settle and buries it somewhere she doesn't have to look at. 

Like her stomach. 

"I'm going to be sick."

Nobody stops her when she stumbles to the bathroom. 

***

Vodka, tequila, repression and some slightly suspicious food - _how in the hell can you get vegan pizza anyway? It's cheese, dammit_ \- apparently don't make a very appealing mix. 

It's not cheap lemon bleach, _they have expensive bleach, thank you very much_ , but Veronica leans over the sink and her fingers curl around the basin as her nostrils twitch and her belly quivers in protest. 

She has to stop throwing up in bathrooms. 

"Veronica?" 

The voice is hesitant and small and it's slightly endearing to wonder how long they stood out there debating among themselves in whispered voices as to who was going to come check on her. 

"I'm okay." Cold water splashed on the face always makes things better. "I'm fine, Mac."

The door opens behind her with a little click and a swish of wood over tile. 

"Not everyone." 

She looks up to meet Mac's eyes in the mirror. 

"What?"

"Not everyone, Veronica." They're soft and gentle, Mac's words, but her eyes are held firm even if they're unfocused and slightly glassy. "Not everyone at school said that about you. Just the 09ers."

It's a snort, small and subtle, but still a snort and still undignified. 

"And the difference is?"

She sees the words slap across Mac's face and bites her lip. 

"No, Mac, I'm sorry." Turning around, she faces Mac and sighs. "You're right, they're not everything. Some of the best people at that school wouldn't know a trust fund if it came up and bit them."

And Mac nods; when she blushes a little Veronica knows she got the message. 

"There were forty seven emails when I woke up this morning." The way Mac rolls her eyes amuses Veronica "Not one of them from anyone who ever spoke more than two words to me above asking for tech help."

"Mac..."

Veronica gets a dismissive wave as her cue to stop. 

"Not you, you're different. That's how Bond and Q work, remember?" A shared smile later and Mac continues. "None of them meant it, none of them really cared except to ask me how I was and really mean to ask what happened."

That's a feeling she knows. 

"Wanna know why I came here today?" Mac asks eventually. "Besides escaping overprotective, smothering parents and the inquisitive press camped on my doorstep?"

It's a weak little smile, they both know it, but Veronica can't help herself. 

"You made your parents camp outside with the press? Wow, Mac, harsh." 

"Because everyone's going to talk." Mac continues. "Even the people who pretend to care. High school's over, but they're going to get together and whisper. And gossip. About me. About... everything."

Comprehension dawns. 

"And I'm the most talked about person you know?"

"That's your word choice." Mac smiles. "Mine was worldly. Seriously, Veronica, none of us really believed what they said. They're the same rich kids they were in grade school. They lie, they cheat and they break toys when people tell them they can't play anymore."

Okay, she thinks, as inspiring pep talks go; that isn't one. 

"I'm a toy, now? Can't I just camp out with the folks and the newshounds?"

Mac shakes her head like a poodle flinging water off its back and Veronica wonders what happened to the red streaks. There's a muffled sound, like the rising of voices, the both of them turn to look in the direction of the living room, but the sounds die out.

"That's not what I meant." A soft glare meets her when Mac comes to a still. "You stood up to them and they tried to break you. You didn't let it get to you, no matter how hard they tried. A lot of people admired you for that."

"I know, Mac." She gives a small, sincere smile. "I did notice. Thank you."

"Don't thank me just yet. This isn't an ego boost." Mac smiles back. "I came here to find out how."

A loud crash sounds and they both gasp. 

***

"Logan!" Veronica cries as she flings herself past Mac and into the hall. "Logan, don't!"

Her feet stop themselves, jerking the rest of her body to a standstill seconds after, and she sways on the spot as she tries to take in what she's seeing. What she feels is Mac's body slam into her back and hears a muffled _oomph_.

"Christ Wallace." It's a sigh, part weary and part amused. "My dad just replaced that lamp a few months ago."

"Sorry." He grins up at her, not looking the least bit sorry at all. "Tell him I'll buy him a new one. Sac'N'Pac pays better after you turn eighteen."

She kneels on the ground and begins sweeping small slivers of glass into a pile. A warped, misshapen lampshade sits at an awkward angle and reminds her suddenly of a fat lady trying to do yoga. She smiles. 

It's just too surreal.

"Just let him go."

Too fucking surreal that in the space of six hours they've all gotten together, drunk enough to sink a naval ship, gone through such inane things as vegetarianism, skinny-dipping and gay fantasies, all the way to murder and betrayal and rape. Her rape, of all things. 

Emotions and tears and recriminations echoed off the walls and now they're still here, Logan standing to the side with his hands in the air to prove his innocence, Mac grabbing the dustpan out of the cupboard under the sink - _how the hell did she know to look there?_ – and with Wallace holding a significantly more bloodied than he was five minutes ago Dick to the ground. 

And they were all acting calm, pretending as though it was just a normal day. 

Christ.

They were all in Jerry's spank bank, for sure. 

As Wallace lets him go, Dick scrambles back on his elbows for a few feet before stopping to wipe the blood away from his nose with the back of his hand, smearing it across the rest of his face. 

His eyes aren’t angry; they’re full of the strangest form of concern Veronica has ever seen in him. 

She thinks it might be the sincere that makes it so odd. 

“I’m going.” Dick says, his voice slightly thick. “I’ll just go…”

Logan has the front door open with a flourish before the sentence is even finished and she can see the flick of pain that scurries over Dick’s face when he realizes what that means. 

_You have a problem with Veronica, you’re pretty much dead to me._

“No.” And not even Veronica can believe she’s the one saying it. “You don’t have to go.”

“What?” Wallace gives her a completely comic double take, back and forth between her and Dick as his hand clenches open and closed around swollen knuckles. 

“Yeah, what?” Logan echoes, looking for the entire world as if he can’t believe she just said that. 

“None of us can leave, for one.” She points out, quite reasonably she thinks, even though they’re all staring as if she’s gone mad. “Dad will kill us all.”

As Dick pushes himself up to a standing position, she casually tips him back. 

“Second, none of us can drive like this. Ante up your keys, all of you, and I promise Logan will return your cars in the morning.”

She gives Logan a sweet smile even as his eyes widen. 

“I will? Really?”

“And third.” Her voice returns to seriousness as she turns back to Dick. “I just spent a year treating you nice after what you did and said to me, you’re not going to throw that in my face by walking away from Logan now.”

“Ronnie…”

But she’s not listening. 

“You’re just going to have to suck it up and work through it, like the rest of us. Guess what, Dick? Consequences for your actions are a bitch.”

***

Veronica knows the instant Keith opens the door and sees them all sitting sweetly and innocently around the table, spread out over the couch, armchair and floor watching a movie, that he’s not fooled. Not for a second. 

“At least you’re all conscious.” He jokes and remains unaware of the flicker that causes. His brow furrows. “Except… where’s my lamp?”

They look at each other guiltily for all of three seconds before Veronica points. 

“Wallace broke it!” She gives Wallace an apologetic nod before looking back to Keith. “He said he’s gonna replace it.”

She can see him mentally taking stock, not just of the room, but also of them all sitting there. It’s probably useless and futile to straighten her back just a little; she does it anyway. 

He sighs. 

“Hi.” Wallace waves brightly. 

“Hi, Mr. Mars.” Mac gives a little wave. 

Logan just nods and Dick looks down to the carpet. 

“I’ve already called your parents, Mac, they’re expecting me to drive you home soon.” How his eyes can stay warm when they’re showing so much disappointment is beyond her. “Alicia’s waiting for you, too, Wallace.”

 _So pick up your things and let’s go_ isn’t said, but they all hear it. Complete with stern authoritative voice and tapping of his metaphorical foot. 

“I, uh…” Even the great Keith Mars gets flustered sometimes, Veronica sits and watches him stumble over the words. “I tried to call your house, Dick…”

Dick just nods resolutely. 

“Yeah, no one’s gonna answer.” It’s a sad little sigh and then Dick stands up, too. “Kendall’s been out all day, she doesn’t care if I’m tanked.”

“You can always stay…”

But Keith doesn’t get to finish his words. 

“No!” 

It’s the simultaneous voice of four people, merged into one word. Keith’s face blanks out in surprise for a second before he agrees. 

“Okay then.” His keys rattle in his hand; he’s not a subtle man. “Any time you’re all ready.”

As Mac, Dick and Wallace gather the few things they brought to the apartment, Keith makes his way over to Veronica and lays a soft kiss on the top of her head. 

“Hey, Sweetie. How’re you doing, really?”

The sudden shift from slightly put out father figure to honestly concerned parent makes her falter as she nods at him, giving him her best, most sincere smile of reassurance. 

His eyes frown even as he nods. 

“Really.” She insists. “It got a little hairy, but we all survived.”

It’s now or never and Veronica holds her breath for the count of five. 

“I need to talk to you, when you get back.”

***

When the door closes, she feels Logan walk up behind her, hesitant and unsure. 

“Talk?”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t turn around, but she takes a deliberate step back and puts herself inches from him, in touching distance. “Yeah, talk.”

They’ve both been weathered down today, flayed by bolts of truth and blame and guilt. She was a little worried about them in the aftermath, but he takes her hint and reaches out, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and the front of her neck, pulling her back into him. 

Veronica relaxes against his body. 

“Are you ready for that?”

She thinks about her answer carefully. 

“I think it’s time.”

They stand together, staring at an empty door for a long time before he breathes deeply, gearing up for something. 

“Veronica, what’s happening here?”

It’s not worth pretending she doesn’t know what he means. 

She thinks about the times he’s made her cry and the times she’s done worse to him, about the level of passion they create in each other, whether it’s love, lust or hate, which tend to be different sides of the same coin where they’re concerned. Thinks about the fact that they only seem to need each other when there’s devastation in their lives and drive each other stir crazy when there isn’t. 

“I don’t know.” Honestly, she doesn’t. “But I know I want it.”

There aren’t many words, she thinks, to describe the million and one things floating through her head when it comes to the two of them. They’ve never exactly been the definition of anything besides dysfunctional. 

“Me too.” 

He whispers the words into her hair. 

***

She’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch and idly nibbling her way through dry crackers, her eyes glaze over the TV screen in front of her, when Keith walks in. 

He eyes the sleeping boy on the couch behind her, hand slung carelessly over her shoulder and down the front of her arm. 

Veronica shrugs. 

“Can’t handle his liquor, poor boy.”

Keith doesn’t laugh; he doesn’t even smile. 

“I didn’t think I still had to give you the alcohol speech, Veronica.”

“You don’t.” She sighs as she sets the box of crackers down and gently slides out from under Logan’s hand. “Honest. We were just…”

“Drinking to forget? That’s a whole speech in itself.”

“It’s not a speech.” She reminds him. “It’s three words: don’t do it.”

His head cocks to the side. 

“I thought that was smoking.”

“Meh.” She shrugs again. “It applies. Point is, I know it. This isn’t a daily ritual for any of us, okay?”

His eyes are always sharp and sometimes it feels as if they can look right through all her crap and way down. It’s not always a good feeling.

“You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” Her eyes flicker to the couch and back. “Let’s talk in my room.”

Keith arches his brows when they get there. 

“Is Wallace replacing your carpet, too?” 

Veronica gives him a weak little smile and shrugs, the brevity falling away from both of them. 

There are many places they can sit that give them distance and the small measure of comfort that might bring, she can sit at her desk or make him do it. 

Somehow she ends up crawling up to the head of her bed with her legs drawn up so she can hug her knees and Keith sits with his hip jutting at an angle over the side of the mattress so he faces her. 

They always end up like this, close. Familiar. 

"This isn't easy for me." Her eyes don't blink as she looks at him and she can feel all the blood drain from her face. "I need you to let me finish telling this without jumping in to ask, okay? I need you to just listen."

It's started already; she can see it, the concern that floods his face and the way his hand inches forward to brush at the cloth of her knees when he nods. 

"It's finished now, there's nothing you can do to change it, and I'm okay now. Remember that."

She thinks about the words bursting from her throat in a heated angry rush just hours before. 

"It was years ago, not long after Lilly died. You remember that party?" Something twitches in his cheek and she knows she doesn't have to clarify anything further; there was only one party after Lilly died. For a long, long time. "Well, nobody wanted me there, not really. They all blamed me for... they just didn't like me."

That's not the direction she wants this conversation to go in. She's fairly sure she doesn't want the conversation at all, but it's time. 

"I thought I could go and prove them all wrong, prove to them I was still who they used to like." The words sound so foolish to her now, just speaking them makes her blush. Who believes something like that? "I was wrong; as soon as I got there, I knew I was wrong. Nothing was going to make them like me again."

She chooses the structure of her next sentence very carefully. She doesn't want to lie, but she doesn't want to invoke too many questions in an already hard to swallow story that could get torn apart before it even begins. 

"I... I didn't see who handed me the drink."

He flinches, actually flinches and reaches out to cover her hands at the top of her knees. His fingers are large and warm. 

"Oh Veronica." 

It's in the shake of his head, the slow leaking of light out of his eyes that she knows. He knows the end of this story. She wonders how many conference rooms he's sat in, cold and clinical walls closing in as a girl with tears running down her cheeks said that exact sentence. Those same words. 

_Somebody handed me a drink...  
He came out of nowhere...   
Everything went fuzzy...   
I don't remember who he was...   
I don't remember...   
I can't remember...   
Please don't let me remember..._

"Everything went dark and I passed out. I woke up..." Her throat closes up and she feels his fingers squeeze hers gently. She wants to cry at the same time she wants not to cry, wants to show him she's really okay. "I woke up the next morning in a strange bed and my underwear was on the floor."

And in some ways, it's harder than it was with Dick and Logan, Mac and Wallace, angry tears running down her face and the freedom not to think about her words, yet it's also easier. She doesn't know how. 

"There was nothing I could do." The truth of it slides slick into her brain. "Everybody hated me. Nobody would talk to me. And I didn't know who'd done it. It was a rich person party with rich people's kids."

He's ready to protest, his face turning red, and the source of her quick logic isn't lost on her. She hates using it now, just hates it. It tastes like sickly, sticky thick medicine that someone forgot to sweeten. Sour and cloying. 

"Shelly Pomroy's father is the Ambassador to Belgium, Mr. Embom owns an airport. The Sinclairs. The Echolls. The Kanes. Do you want me to go on? There wasn't anything I could do." 

She knows she's treading on thin, delicate air when she mentions both the Echolls and the Kanes, but she also knows that he'll be more suspicious if she doesn't. He's already got a million questions and she has to hurry the words along before he manages to speak one of them. 

"I... I had to let it go. I had to go back to school and pretend it never happened." Her voice quivers for a second and he takes a deep breath, but he stays silent and she loves him even more. "So I did. And it got easier, because I had you. You're the only reason I'm still here."

Her hands reaches out and closes on his forearm. He's all muscle and sinew and bone and she knows the feel of him like her own skin. She nearly lost this, nearly didn't have him, and the desperate fear of it overwhelms her again. 

"I can't lose you." She shifts forward, scrunching her knees down as he leans in and her arms scramble up and around his neck, holding on tightly. "I love you, Dad."

Her tears feel hot on her cheek, slipping onto his neck and she breathes in the feel of him hugging her, whispering her name over and over again. 

"I'm not going anywhere." He says softly, his hands coming to rest on her waist and gentling her back down so he can rest his forehead on hers. "Now, finish your story."

"Last year..." It's a big, shuddering breath that rocks through her as she tries to reel the tears back in. "I found out about the party, about what happened. It was GHB and it was meant for someone else, but I got it."

She deliberately leaves out these names. It won't do any good to point the finger at someone when the main culprits are long gone. All he'll do is focus his blame on Logan or Dick or anyone else who’s around. As much as she relishes the thought of Keith breaking more than furniture with Dick's face, she doesn't really want him to lose that control. 

And she knows he would. 

Especially if he knew Logan brought the drugs. 

"After that, I was out of it. There were boys who fed me shots and somehow I ended up in one of the bedrooms." _Yeah, somehow, like Dick carrying me, go punch him, make it hurt._ "Alone with Beaver... with Cassidy, but he said nothing happened. And I believed him. He told me..."

She breathes, fast and deep and just wants it to be over as Keith’s knuckles whiten. 

"And then I found out that Duncan was with me." Her eyes fall down at that and she breaks their connection, leaning back, she sees and feels the sudden tightening of his posture. "Someone slipped him drugs, too, and he found me in the room and he swears it was consensual, he swears we both wanted it."

His hand comes up and his thumb wipes a tear away from just underneath her left eye. 

"Then why did he leave you?"

Damn him and his obvious questions. 

"He thought I was his sister. That's why he broke up with me, because... he knew." 

The subject hangs heavy in the air; they haven't really spoken about it since he showed her the results. It laced every moment they've had since then, threading between them like a soft _of course_ , but they haven't said it out loud. 

He doesn't furrow his brows and ask her why she'd go back to Duncan; he doesn't sigh and remind her that she spent months with Duncan and didn't tell him once about any of this. She knows he wants to, knows he already disapproves of Duncan an this isn’t helping at all, but there's still more to the story and she breathes in. 

"I thought, I thought after that it was better, you know? It wasn't rape." She wishes she could keep her voice neutral, like the rest of her story, but the word comes out like a whisper. _Rape_. And she shudders. "I didn't remember, but it..."

"It's okay."

The timber in his voice is soft and rumbly and she can trace it all the way back through her childhood. Her eyes close and she lets herself float on it for a second, lets herself ignore the rest of it. 

She didn't realize she was still crying. 

"Then a few months ago, I went to the doctor and found out I had chlamydia." They haven't spoken about this, either, not since those few brief words outside the courthouse. His face remains calm and he nods her to continue, she thinks he's already put two and two together. "And I'd only been with Duncan and he didn't..."

She thinks maybe he's just letting her get the words out. 

"Then you said the Mayor was treated for it."

She thinks maybe she really needs to get the words out. 

"When I saw that Cassidy was the third boy..."

It's just that the words seem to stop half way up her throat and lodge themselves right into her larynx, digging in and refusing to let go. She's holding so tightly to her legs she can feel her kneecaps leaving permanent dents in the soft flesh of her upper arms. 

"I knew. I knew he lied, I knew he..." There's that word again and she gasps, looking up to the ceiling and wishing she could be ten minutes in the future, where it was over and she could stop saying it. "Cassidy Casablancas raped me when I was unconscious. And then Duncan came and left. And I don't remember any of it."

It sounds stale and odd and flat and she thinks maybe she imagined saying the words at all, except that she can't stop shaking and her teeth bite so hard into her bottom lip it tastes like copper and she might need reconstructive surgery. 

She is _never_ telling the truth again. 

"Oh, honey." It's the sorrow in his voice that makes her sob as he cups the back of her head and she buries herself back into the cocoon of him, his arms coming around her. "I'm sorry you couldn't come to me with this before now."

He's always done this, she doesn't remember a time when the feel of his hand running down the back of her head couldn't peel the layers of her grief away. Unthinkable horrors like a lost My Little Pony disappeared in the wake of his soft, soothing hush. 

She clings him and hopes it's enough to say: _I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, too._

He's her father; he'll always be her father. 

"I love you, Dad, I love you so much." She doesn't know what she's saying anymore. "You stayed, you stayed and you're the only one that did and you're the reason I made it. I couldn't have done it without you."

She is Veronica Mars, named for a saint bearing a bloody cloth, Vera being _truth_ and Icon being _image_ , Mars being an angry red planet named for a god of war and she got both from him. Every part of her is Keith Mars and his strength has made her the true image of a war survivor. 

He chose her name and he shaped her life. 

He isn't named for a saint; he's named for a forest, a place of battle. And Lianne is, Lianne is a saint of the sun and also a martyr. A martyr of a war she wasn't strong enough to fight, but a saint all the same. 

And it suddenly doesn’t matter that for three years that same woman has done nothing but hurt her, hurt them both, Veronica is hurled into memories of soft blonde hair stretched through the bristles of a brush and bright smiles and a voice smooth like warmed honey drizzled over hot pancakes calling her sweetheart and giggling about boys. She’s left aching for the woman who sat with her in front of the mirror when she was nine, gently wiping the circles of deep purple from around her eyes with a moistened cloth and keeping a straight face before whispering the secrets of how a lady applies makeup. 

She is Veronica Mars and she owes everything to her father. 

"I love you, Dad, I do." She whispers desperately, feeling like a five year old scared of monsters in the closet. "But sometimes I want my mommy back."

***

He cries with her and he cries for her and there’s no real difference as they slowly return to themselves. Slowly sliding back from each other, taking small, swift wipes of fingers and fists across faces, little sniffs of nose clearing and a hand that brushes over a shoulder before pulling back.

“I am proud of you, Veronica.” He says it and she knows he means it as he pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

She smiles. 

“Got it from the best.”

He manages a weak smile back and she can see he’s trying very hard to give her that. 

“I wish you’d told me, but I understand why you didn’t.” He stands up slowly, awkwardly, as if he’s not sure of the proper protocol as to how long he has to remain by her side, watching for any indication she might give. “I think it’s been a long day and you need your sleep.”

It’s still early, but she doesn’t argue.

There are too many things he wants to ask, she can see it in his eyes, too many things he wants to start following up on. His spidey-police sense is tingling. She knows the signs; even if he doesn’t think he’s showing any. He won’t ask, not today, not tonight, because she asked him not to. 

Maybe one day she’s going to have to run interference and try to stop him causing more damage to himself than any small matter of justice he might want to dish out, but not today. 

He walks softly into the living room to lock the door and complete his last minute routine before heading to his own room and closing the door, also softly, and she knows she won’t hear from him for the rest of the night, but she also knows he won’t sleep.

She looks down at the small bed and frowns, her hand splaying on the mattress, fingers edging under the sheet as she smoothes the layers down. It’s empty and she’s already made herself so empty today she can’t even contemplate expanding that by lying here and blinking at the walls. 

Logan’s still asleep on the couch and she stands there for a second, watching his hand rise and fall as it lies on his stomach. It should be strange that they’ve never really been intimate, yet she knows the shape of him as well as she knows herself. 

She’s too tired to go back to her room to find another blanket and pillow. 

His body is warm and his face barely even moves when she lowers herself onto him, his eyes don’t blink, but his arm shifts as a small moan escapes his lips. She feels his hand settle itself on the small of her back and lays her head on his chest, listening to his heart pound under her ear. 

It leaves her breathless that she can crawl up to him, next to him, and not wake him up. That he shifts around her and holds her close without even knowing it. The closeness of it humbles her and her eyes droop. 

Veronica falls asleep with her legs nesting into his. 

***


	13. thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not many people looking at a young, awkward teen Keith Mars would have thought policeman, let alone decorated sheriff, in fact they'd probably all thought: used car salesman and virgin unto death... Even his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R (dark themes, a few choice words).   
> **Character/Pairing:** Keith, ensemble. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things.   
> **Wordcount:** 9,000 (ish, give or take).   
> **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** He feels like a vet with a med kit stumbling upon a group of vultures waiting for an animal to die on the road. Unwanted.  
>  **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> Keith's POV

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part thirteen.**  
*~*~*~*

"Pedophilia is a serious charge, Mr. Mars."

He's too tired for this. 

"Guess I'll stop laughing, then."

Agent Brevin looks over the files in front of him and sighs, lifting up one corner of a page and peering underneath it like there are answers hidden there. If there are, police work sure has changed in the last three years. 

"We all know Woody's guilty." The tired sigh comes from Brevin's partner, an annoyed looking woman with red hair tied back at the nape of her neck. "We just want to wrap this up as soon as possible. Why won't you tell us the truth?"

Keith has worked too long in the business not to know where the truth will lead. Police files are full of facts and evidence and carefully scrounged details. They're not very crowded with the grunt work that goes into getting those details and there are wide empty spaces where the name of the sources used should go but never do. 

Being a Private Eye is a lot like being a Policeman, without all the pesky red tape and crippling government restrictions and policies and procedures. He cements his relationships with the people who help him by keeping them out of the line of questioning, keeping them out of witness boxes and cold interrogation rooms. 

"I worked alone." He keeps his eyes steady and his hands still. "My daughter didn't help me gather any evidence."

And he cements his sanity by keeping Veronica away from all of this. She didn't say anything, but she doesn't really need to for him to notice how much the last week has taken its toll, how much spending the day here took out of her. 

"Right." Brevin drawls the words out of his square jaw with all the sincerity of a gnat. "The same daughter who goes to school with Mr. Goodman's daughter? Who was inside the Goodman house on several confirmed occasions recently? The same daughter who sat in this very building with you last week when you first bought the allegations to Sheriff Lamb? She had nothing to do with it?"

"That's her." Keith shrugs. "She wasn't involved."

"We talked to Goodman's lawyer." The woman announces and Keith is sure she introduced herself when they first sat down two hours ago, but her name has slipped right out of his head. He's off his game. "He says Gia Goodman called him on the morning of the explosion. Funny thing, though, Gia Goodman swears she never made that call."

Brevin taps his pen on the edge of the desk. 

"Makes us wonder if there's anyone connected to the case who knows Miss Goodman well enough to do a passable impression for someone who's known the family for years."

They stare at each other and wait. 

"They just need her statement, Keith."

He barely even spares a glace at Donald Lamb leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed in front of his body, the picture of casual. His jaw tightens for the first time in the interview, but he relaxes almost instantly. 

There'll be other times to get in Lamb's way. Right now isn't one of them. Keith has never felt as sorry for the man as he does today. It's all bluster that makes Lamb cocky, because he can see the bags under his eyes and the lines that drag down the corner of his mouth, he knows how draining those conversations can be. 

_Mr. and Mrs. Smith? The man who coached your son in Little League has been charged with molesting young boys..._

There's no easy way to say it, no platitude to cover it. No way to ignore the horror and fear and grief that simultaneously spikes in a parent's eye when they hear those words. 

Keith sighs, the picture of boredom. 

"Veronica was a witness, just an innocent bystander at the hotel. She made her statement yesterday." 

The last thing she needs is to be brought back here in anywhere near the state he heard her on the phone earlier. 

"Veronica?" Agent Wells echoes. 

Wells, Keith is fairly sure that's her name, Susannah Wells. She screws her face up in vague recognition, trying to place the name. Agent Brevis slides another folder over to her and Keith watches her eyes skim over the neatly spaced typeface. 

_The girl from the roof? Jesus._

It's barely a whisper, air passed between two heads bowed together and turned away from the table, but he hears it anyway. More whispers and a finger pointing further down in the file. 

They're barely audible, the two agents, but his ears know the shape of the words _Aaron Echolls_ and _Lilly Kane_ and _solved_ and _fridge_ and _set on fire_ and _acquitted_ and he wonders if he even needs sound to recognize them anymore. He makes his face blank as they turn to face him. 

Agent Wells leans forward again. 

"We have several witnesses that state your daughter was actively seeking out Cassidy Casablancas that night. The receptionist behind the check in counter states she was quite adamant in reaching him or his girlfriend."

"That doesn't prove anything." Keith is getting dizzy from all the circles. "Cindy MacKenzie is one of my daughter's friends."

_Cindy MacKenzie, the other victim._

The words don't actually make sense, Keith thinks, because he knows Mac and he heard her voice over the phone before, yelling a hello at him. He can see her bright face and shining eyes and she is, right this very moment, safe in his apartment. 

He has to quash the smile when he tries to picture what these agents would do if they knew that four of the five teens getting spectacularly drunk in his apartment are the major players in the files they keep checking and cross referencing. 

He's beginning to hate those whispers from the other side, the shared looks between the agents and the silences heavy with meaning. He hopes he was never this overt in his interviews. 

"Come on, Mr. Mars." Brevin has obviously chosen the short straw and is playing the good cop as he smiles, a little weary, the understanding moue of brothers in arms. "We all know how this works. She's not in any trouble."

"Of course not." Keith smiles back. "Because she's not involved."

"Of course she's involved." Wells sighs, frustration evident on her face. "Trouble follows your daughter around like the plague."

There's a short, sharp sound coming from the doorway, like a snort choked back just in time. Keith turns to glare at Lamb and doesn't miss the triumphant glare in his eye. 

He doesn't know exactly what it is Donald Lamb has against his daughter or what passed between them to make her so hostile towards him, but he knows it's something. Something beyond mere resentment running through Lamb taking over the Sheriff role and Veronica making his life hell because of it. 

_He smells bad. And he's probably never had a date in his whole life. And...  
Veronica.  
What, Dad? It's probably true.  
He didn't push me out of office, Veronica; he just stepped up. That makes him an opportunist, it doesn't mean he did anything wrong. We don't victimize people, I taught you better than that.   
Well, fine, but he still smells._

She'd huffed, but she'd agreed and they hadn't spoken about Lamb again as they rebuilt their lives. It was easy enough; with him not working in the courthouse any more, Veronica had no reason to visit and no reason to cross paths with the man. When the subject came up, which it inevitably did, Veronica seemed uninterested and unconcerned. 

Keith had figured that she was moving on, hoped at least, until it all changed. He could never pinpoint what happened, but after that Veronica had hated Lamb with a passion and in any exchange he'd witnessed, Lamb had baited her on with equal vengeance. 

He had never once bothered to implore Lamb to be the better person. 

"I gathered the information regarding Woody Goodman by myself." He says calmly, but with enough force to make his point as he turns to face the agents in front of him. "Type that up, let me sign it, and I'll be on my way."

This interview is over. 

***

He makes the calls from his cell phone, both to the MacKenzies and Alicia, keeping his voice cool and calm and even, trying to make it sound like the most reasonable thing in the world that their underage children will be dropped at home inebriated. Perfectly logical. Nothing wrong with it at all. What about those Padres?

It doesn't surprise him whatsoever that the MacKenzies give him less trouble than Alicia does. 

Keith pulls his car out into traffic and points it towards home, idly turning the radio up. It's a brief, barely there little tug as he passes the intersection he would have turned down three years ago. 

Before he moved, before he was forced to stop driving to and from the courthouse. 

Sometimes he misses it, the security and safety of the title Sheriff, not that he'll admit it. Misses the easy familiarity with people who would otherwise look through him and his family. That uniform offered more than power and prestige and a paycheck, it brought satisfaction and admiration and the deep knowledge he was making a difference. 

Given what happened later, he will never admit to anyone what first spurred him on to joining the police after graduation. It's humiliating and, worse, just plain ironic. 

He sincerely doubts the only other person who knows will spread the rumor. Red-faced admissions and secrets told under the heavy quilt on a particularly cold morning when neither of them wanted to wake up, preferring to stay and giggle into each other's warm breaths. He sincerely doubts Lianne even remembers that morning, or any of the time that covers the two decades that made up their life together. 

But that's a train of thought not likely to lead anywhere helpful. 

Not many people looking at a young, awkward teen Keith Mars would have thought policeman, let alone decorated sheriff, in fact they'd probably all thought _used car salesman and virgin unto death_. 

Even his mother. 

Not that he could blame them, really, he'd been average and unmemorable in any and every sense of the word. Pale, stocky, he wasn't good at much. He wasn't chosen first in gym or even last. He never aced any of his classes, but never really failed them either. He wasn't popular, but he wasn't an outcast. 

That was before he turned sixteen and Bob Dylan crawled inside his head with a scratchy voice and a tale of a boxer done wrong. The story intrigued him and he trawled through news items, listened to the song until the lyrics haunted his sleep and read _The Sixteenth Round_ from cover to cover.

Until that year, he'd never really wondered about policemen, the reasons they did their job or the responsibilities they had while doing it. Police, as far as he and all his friends had been concerned, were just annoyances to avoid when they smuggled cigarettes and snuck six packs. Police, as far as they were concerned, were always just _there_ and were only supposed to be seen when something bad happened. 

He'd felt the first rumblings of injustice and betrayal that people entrusted to keeping everyone safe could do something so heinous as to incriminate an innocent man. 

And he'd discovered that he _liked_ looking at things like evidence and court transcripts and musty old law books in the state library. He'd had an epiphany: it wasn't really that he hadn't been good at anything; he'd just never _chosen_ to be good at it. 

The following year when the guidance counselor of his school had pulled him into the office to ask what he wanted to do with his life, Keith had thought about that morning's paper and the announcement that Rubin Carter's second appeal had failed, looked the counselor in the eye and said he wanted to be a cop. 

In 1985 he was married and working his way up the Fresno police force. He found out on the same day that Rubin Carter had been released with his charges dropped and, that his reluctant request - filed after Lianne had nearly broken down in tears telling him how lonely she was away from home - to be moved to the Neptune Sheriff's Department had been granted and that Lianne was pregnant. 

Three events that caught his attention. Two of which changed his life irrevocably. Only one he still thanked the deities of the sacred baseball diamond for. 

And he was about to ground her for life, eighteen or not. 

***

Keith may not be the smartest person on the face of the planet, nor the most perceptive, but he likes to think that he sees a lot of things other people don't. He likes to think he can read body language. 

Especially the body language of five rather clumsy, rather amusingly innocent acting, but clearly intoxicated teens. It's almost insulting that Veronica thinks she can get away with it, looking at him with bright, glassy eyes and a cheerful expression. 

An instant is all he needs to take it all in: the creases under her eyes that mean she's been crying; the tenseness of Logan's jaw that suggest anger to whomever made her cry; the tell tale signs of a bloody split in the corner of Dick's nose; the even more telling swelling of Wallace's knuckles before his hand swiftly gets hidden; and Mac's guilty flush. 

But it's not the teens that Keith reads; it's Backup. 

He trained Backup personally, knows the limits of what the dog will take and why and who he'll take it from. Probably more than himself, Veronica holds Backup's loyalty and he knows the dog will lay down his life for Veronica, without pause. 

_Paws? Not now, Keith._

And right now he's sitting with his back to her, letting her hand glide easily over the back of his neck in calming gestures. The dog is far from calm, even if he's still, he's sitting upright and has placed himself squarely between Veronica and Dick Casablancas. And he's not taking his eyes off the boy. 

Keith files that away for future reference. 

"At least you're all conscious." 

It's meant as a joke, something to clear the air, but Mac baulks and Logan's scowl gets deeper, Veronica flinches and Dick's face grows red. Right. Note to self, Keith, mass murder, suicide and alcohol do not a merry group make. 

"Except..." His eyes focus on the empty space on the small coffee table. "Where's my lamp?"

Wallace and Logan are familiar sights in this house, Mac is getting there, but Keith has only a passing knowledge of the boy who can't seem to meet his eyes and looks guiltily down at the floor. He knows him as a typed word, the links to follow in a murder investigation, a blurry photo in a yearbook, a name spoken with a distasteful curl of Veronica's lip. 

He doesn't know why Dick's here, any more than he knows why the air is awkward and thick and uncomfortable. He feels like a vet with a med kit stumbling upon a group of vultures waiting for an animal to die on the road. Unwanted. 

It's beginning to get dark and he needs to get these kids home, so he tries to move them along, telling them their parents are waiting for them, which isn't a lie, and they take the hint. 

"I, uh..." But he doesn't know Dick and he's not sure how to say that there's no one who particularly cares one way or the other. "I tried to call your house, Dick..."

He doesn't know him, and he's suspicious and guarded given the atmosphere, but Dick's still just a boy. A boy who lost his father and then his brother and is now burdened with the guilt of the bystander left behind. 

"Yeah, no one's gonna answer. Kendall's been out all day, she doesn't care if I'm tanked."

Just a boy and no one deserves an unfeeling house at times like this. 

"You can always stay..."

"No!"

The reaction is immediate. Veronica, Logan, Wallace and Mac all jump in to stop that train of thought. It's the loudest and most vocal he's ever seen Mac. He's fairly sure that if Backup could speak, he'd have said the same thing. 

"Okay then, let's go."

Veronica stands in the middle of the room as everyone else gathers their things, looking a little lost as she hugs her elbows in close to her body. It's only a few steps until he's standing next to her and he can ask what he really wants to know. 

"Hey Sweetie, how're you doing, really?"

He has to add the 'really' as a preemptive strike against the ready lie he knows sits on her tongue. At her reassuring smile, he frowns and she sighs. 

"Really." Most parents would find the little eye roll annoying. He kind of likes it. It's a typical teenager thing to do. "It got a little hairy, but we all survived."

She doesn't do enough typical teenager things. 

"We need to talk when you get back."

Those words chill him. In the history of mankind, deliberately scheduled talks are never of the good. 

***

The awkwardness just accelerates when the four of them get to his car. Nobody looks at each other and he looks at the little huddle of them then looks at the one passenger seat. 

Normally he'd play the gentleman and ask Mac to sit up front. He's not going to sit Wallace in the back with Dick, though, if their respective injuries are anything to go by. His next obvious choice would be Wallace, but Mac looks jumpy and nervous and it doesn't escape his notice that she keeps maneuvering herself so that she's never standing next to Dick. 

By process of elimination, the stranger wins. 

"Dick, you're in front."

The three of them sigh in relief and jump into movement. 

Not surprisingly, the drive is stilted and quiet and unbearable. 

"Dick, would you mind looking underneath your seat? Pull out the box that should be there?"

The boy gives him a strange look, most likely wondering what he's up to, but he doesn't argue. Even after being out of office, the title Sheriff hangs around. Keith knows the instant that all three of them realize what it is. 

A first aid kit. 

"If no one's at your house, make me feel better by fixing your face where I can see it." He glances in the mirror at Wallace. "And Alicia will hunt me down and kill me if she sees your hand in that condition."

With movement and activity comes a release of tension. 

The MacKenzies live closest and he warns both Dick and Wallace with his eyes to behave as he takes her to the door, explaining to her worried parents that nothing happened and suggesting they not make a big deal of it. 

Next comes the Fennel house and that explanation is a little more edgy as Alicia both thanks him for bringing Wallace home and glares at him for being Keith Mars and her ex and still holding Wallace's trust. 

He has the sudden urge to hold her again. 

So he says goodbye and slinks back to his car. 

"You know, Mr. Mars." Dick says as the car winds its way into the richer hills of Neptune. "You're alright for a dad."

That's not what he was expecting. 

"Thanks, I guess."

Any other time and he might ask how he qualifies as a person, but it isn't any other time and this time isn't for jokes. 

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" He says instead. "I mean... you don't have to stay by yourself."

Instantly a wall comes down and the boy's eyes become steely. 

"Yeah." Dick makes a little sound of disbelief, as if the very thought otherwise is unthinkable and ludicrous, and punches the security code into the front gate. "I think I'll be just fine inside my big walled in mansion all by myself, thanks." 

The car slows to a stop just outside the Casablancas' front door, tires crunching the pristine gravel of the elegant circular driveway. 

Keith thinks about his wife making him a liar, about all the times he made excuses to Veronica on her behalf, about the catch in his throat every time he ignored mentions of Jake Kane and her eyes lit up just a little. He thinks about watching her walk away and having to deal with the wreckage she left behind. 

"None of this is your fault, you know." He watches the way Dick pauses at his words with a hand on the door. "You can't blame yourself for what your brother did."

"Yeah." Is the eventual answer. "Right."

Keith flinches when the door slams hard. 

***

He has spent the majority of his time over the last few days either sitting at the Sheriff's station, trying to act normal around Veronica while reassuring her that both she and he are alright and that he doesn't mind Logan Echolls becoming her apparent Siamese twin and driving. 

Keith is beginning to hate cars. 

And the bright yellow of Logan Echolls' X-Terra sitting jauntily in the guest park of the apartment complex, cheery as Big Bird on E and just as obnoxious. 

As he walks the thin path to his door, he can't help but remember that night in the middle of summer. He'd come home, heat trickling down the back of his neck, and all he'd wanted was to settle into the comfort of his arm chair, the quiet hum of AC and some highly entertaining banter with his daughter. 

What he'd heard was raised voices, yelling and recrimination, followed by a crash and the sound of his daughter gasping. He doesn't remember much about what followed, except the instant rage bubbling up inside him and the feel of Logan pushed up against the wall with his arm behind his back. 

And Veronica's face had been horrified and scared and sorry all at once. 

Logan had deflated immediately, turned pliant and passive the instant Keith threw the door open. Had broken down and apologized over and over, pleading with Veronica, even as Keith had thrown him out the door and slammed it shut. 

Even though he knows better, he can't help listening harder now when he approaches the door, when he knows they're alone together. 

The Logan of the past few days would not yell or threaten or make Veronica cry, the Logan he'd walked in on that first morning to see cradling Veronica when she was breaking down, the Logan who had wordlessly followed her around and supported her when she needed it, that Logan would not deliberately hurt her. 

That Logan would, he'd learned, go up on a rooftop and stop Veronica from being shot. 

One of these days he's going to be there to protect her himself. 

Soon. 

Part of Keith wants a confrontation, wants to walk in on Logan acting like the bastard he tries so hard to be for other people, because it would give him an excuse to throw him out again. Give him just the reason he needs to look Logan in the eye and tell him once and for all to get the _hell out_ and stay away from his daughter forever. 

Maybe he could nail the remains of Logan's corpse to the front door as a warning to all other men in her life. 

Another part of him, the more reasonable one he considers being the long lost cousin of the future car salesman, boring and unmemorable in _every_ way, reminds him that she is, indeed, eighteen. Soon to be nineteen, in point of fact. She's old enough to make her own choices; the law is even on her side in this one. She's old enough to deal with the choices she makes, even if her choices lead to men he doesn't like. 

It doesn't stop him wanting to build an eighty-foot barbed wire fence around her with nothing but her teddy bears and the magic markers with glitter she begged him to buy for six straight weeks until he finally caved and then she'd told him, in a breathy whisper, about the ones that changed color when you used a special white pen. 

He'd leave a small space to push a tray of food in; he's not a total animal. 

The apartment is quiet when he finally opens the door and he sees her sitting on the floor, casually eating dry crackers as she watches the TV with all the ease of any teenager he's ever known or seen or heard about. 

Logan is sleeping on the couch behind her, becoming a permanent fixture in their home, and Keith is reminded that she only started bringing in strays when he showed her how to rescue them. 

Logan's arm drops over the side of the cushions, falling loosely over her shoulder and his fingers are curled into her skin. Veronica looks up at him and doesn't even move to shake the hand away.

He shouldn't recognize the slackness of the skin at the edges of her eyes and lips, the half hooded way her eyes droop, as signs of a post alcohol fugue, but he does. She has Lianne's features in ways he'll never tell her. 

"I didn't think I still had to give you the alcohol speech, Veronica."

"You don't." She sighs and slips out from under Logan's hand and Keith has to block his head not to hear that the taint of excuse on her lips sounds just like her mother. "Honest. We were just..."

"Drinking to forget? That's a whole speech in itself."

The light that goes off in her eyes reminds him, more so than the voice in the back of his head, that she isn't Lianne, that she's ten times stronger than her mother and that he's foolish to even consider comparing the two.

"It's not a speech." She insists. "It's three words: don't do it."

It's a sudden flash he gets, the memory that he'd gone to work for months to open his folders and find a white paper with swirls of bright, stark glitter filled colors, swirly hearts and happy stick figure people, houses with purple chimneys even though she'd never left California. Months of _I love you, Daddy_ spelled in glitter until the colors had started to fade and the inks had gone dry and she'd cried when she'd finally had to throw the markers away. 

She's always been old enough to deal with the choices she makes. 

"I thought that was smoking."

It clears the air between them and he's suddenly grateful for the knowledge, the gentle reminder that he still knows her, _knows them_ well enough to know how to do that. 

"Meh. It applies." And that, the studious way she shrugs and moves on without dwelling, is all his Veronica. "Point is, I know it. This isn't a daily ritual for any of us, okay?"

His daughter, who thought he was dead, and he can't even begin to imagine the horrors she went through. He's had heart stopping moments, too many to be comfortable, when he feared for her life. The jolt of seeing that fridge catch fire was one of the worst, but even then he'd never had the actual _knowledge_ of it. He'd never spent hours looking at his hands trying to realize that the baby they'd once held was gone. 

"You wanted to talk?"

Her face suddenly pales and she looks closer to eight than eighteen. 

"Yeah." They both look at Logan. "Let's talk in my room."

He's not sure what he's expecting, when he enters her room. 

Keith has done his fair share of visits to suspects' houses, unofficially, just to 'ask a few questions' here and there. He knows what to look for, knows how to read the signs. 

And if anyone asks him what it means that the corner of her carpet has been torn up, he'd have to say that it looks like she heard the cops were on her tail and destroyed incriminating evidence. 

Evidence of _what?_

"Is Wallace replacing your carpet, too?"

He has to tell himself to stop it, to snap out of it. This is Veronica, his daughter, she's not a suspect and he doesn't need to coax small details out of her that might lead to important information. 

She twists her head around, looking for a place to sit comfortably and he waits for her to choose. There's something edgy about her movements, nervous and scared, that makes him let her take the lead. 

He follows her to the bed and shifts one knee easily up, resting all his weight on his hips, the way he used to do when she was six and still believed stories about princesses up in stone castle towers. 

"This isn't easy for me." Her words stutter into the tension and he watches her eyes, they don't look away even if he can see she wants to. "I need you to let me finish telling this without jumping in to ask, okay? I need you to just listen."

She's shaking in front of him, small and fragile, and all she can do is look worried about him. He can't stop himself reaching out to touch her knee, to steady them both and remind her that she's fine. 

"It's finished now, there's nothing you can do to change it, and I'm okay now. Remember that."

It takes him to places he doesn't want to be, the things that have marred her life and tried to break her down, Lilly's death, Lianne's leaving, their pariah status in the town, Aaron's arrest, the trial, Faith Manning and FBI agents searching this very room. He wonders what she thinks is worse than that. 

"It was years ago, not long after Lilly died. You remember that party?" 

He hadn't, not for along time, but he gets a flicker of a white dress and a brave little toaster smile as she walked out the door and he told her to have fun. 

"Well, nobody wanted me there, not really. They all blamed me for... they just didn't like me."

He knows exactly what they blamed her for, he knew it then and he still knows it. It doesn't take being sixteen to realize the cruelty of teenagers at a high school when the whole community blames you for the cracking of a grieving family. 

"I thought I could go and prove them all wrong, prove to them I was still who they used to like. I was wrong; as soon as I got there, I knew I was wrong. Nothing was going to make them like me again."

The platitude comes unbidden to his lips, that they weren't really her friends then, but something tells him to shut the hell up and let her finish the story, because she already knows that. Knows it more than he does. 

"I... I didn't see who handed me the drink."

It's not the sentence that he can't wrap his head around, can't understand, because he understands it all too well. It's what comes after the sentence that cops dread and parents spend hours scrubbing out of their brains with steel wool. 

"Oh Veronica." 

He doesn't know what to say. 

"Everything went dark and I passed out. I woke up..." She's still shaking and he knows why. "I woke up the next morning in a strange bed and my underwear was on the floor."

There are things she isn't saying and he knows she probably never will. Things about how she felt when she woke up, about the items in the room, the way the covers were shaped against her, any signs of... _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!_ ...anything. The questions policemen are supposed to ask, but fathers never do. 

When she and Lilly first started wearing makeup and leaving the house giggling and energized with the thrill of going out, he had drilled into her, into them both, the important rules. 

Don't get in a car with someone who has been drinking. Don't accept drinks from strangers or people you don't trust. Don't leave your drink unattended and don't finish it if you do. 

_God, Mr. Mars, we get it, alright? You're such a drama queen. We're almost fourteen._

He can't remember, he just can't remember, if he ever told her what to do when the drink came from someone she thought she trusted. How is a father supposed to compete with that?

"There was nothing I could do." She continues. "Everybody hated me. Nobody would talk to me. And I didn't know who'd done it. It was a rich person party with rich people's kids."

His heart sinks, because as a father he wants to deny it, to exclaim that he would have found out and made that person pay, but as the ex-Sheriff to Neptune California, he knows how wealthy people can close up. He knows there's nothing stronger than a circle of well to do parents closing in around the stench of trouble that wafts off their precious teenage children. It's unbreakable. 

"Shelly Pomroy's father is the Ambassador to Belgium, Mr. Embom owns an airport. The Sinclairs. The Echolls. The Kanes. Do you want me to go on? There wasn't anything I could do." 

Her words are flat when she says it, when she ticks over the names of the most influential people in town. He tries not to react when he hears _Echolls_ and _Kane_ , two names that have been thorns in his side. Thorns? Goddamned broad swords. In his life and hers. He can trace all her pain to those two names. 

"I... I had to let it go. I had to go back to school and pretend it never happened." 

They had counselors at the station, trained psychologists that came and talked to victims of sex crimes. And always there was the question, eyes wide and white, like bambi in the headlights. 

_What happens if he's not changed? What if I have to see him every day? How can I do that?_

He'd never known how to answer that, his tongue would stick dry in his mouth and he'd look to the counselors. They were trained specifically, because all a cop was trained to do was never declare someone would be arrested and charged, because you didn't know, you never fucking knew. 

And now, as he looks at his daughter, he wishes he still didn't know. 

_You suck it up and you move on, because you have to._

"So I did. And it got easier, because I had you." It hits him like an accusation. "You're the only reason I'm still here."

He's said the same about her before, knows he told her that when he was in his hospital bed drowsy with the morphine. Veronica stood by him when nobody else did, not even his own wife, and she held her head up and never once questioned or blamed him. 

And look where it got her. 

She grabs him, clutches him with fingers so tight he can feel the bruises forming and he holds her because she needs it, needs to feel someone here for her. 

His whole body is still as he runs his hands down her back, soothing her like he did since she was five minutes old and cradled into his shoulder, but underneath it's all rolling rage and despair and utter helplessness. 

If he didn't go after Jake Kane, if he backed down and just let things lie then Lianne would still be here, Veronica would never have faced danger and isolation and near death at Aaron's hands. The whole town was happy to let things lie; he should have done the same. 

Then he remembers that Veronica would still have all her old friends _the friends that let this happen and left her there to face it alone_ and can't quite believe that things would be better off. 

"I can't lose you. I love you, Dad."

She's sobbing and he knows where she is, back to that night, watching the plane explode and there's nothing he can say, nothing he can do to fix that. 

"I'm not going anywhere." 

It's stupid and simplistic and doesn't even come close to covering what he wants to say, but somehow he thinks she already knows what he means. They've always known. 

Just like he knows there's more and he's not going to like it. 

"Now, finish your story."

She nods, sucking the tears right back in with a huge gasp of breath that hurts him. Even now she trusts him to lead her through. 

"Last year...I found out about the party, about what happened." 

And he knows. Without thinking he knows, with the surety of a father who sees but doesn't want to see, who doesn't want to acknowledge. He sees Veronica spaced out on the office floor, pulling apart her desk and methodically wiping every inch and speck of dust. He hears himself joking about it, because it was a habit she'd picked up before. 

After that party. 

"It was GHB and it was meant for someone else, but I got it."

GHB, Keith thinks and his mind reels with it. Liquid X, Georgia Home Boy, Grievous Bodily Harm, Great Hormones at Bedtime, Cherry Meth, jesus they even call it _Easy Lay_. He wants to stop the Sheriff in him that runs through the list of information, the fact sheet that sits in the third file in the first drawer. 

It looks just like water. Effects include: increased intoxication; increased energy; desire to socialize; feelings of affection; feelings of sensuality; increased sexual experiences; muscle relaxation; loss of muscle control; possible nausea; loss of gag reflex; headaches; drowsiness; dizziness; 

_Stop it, Keith; stop it now._

amnesia; vomiting; respiratory problems; slowed respiratory intake to six breaths per minute; loss of consciousness; being conscious yet unable to move; coma; and death.

 _Being conscious while unable to move? Amnesia? She could have been awake... Jesus fucking Christ, Keith, stop it._

Passing out while on GHB is called carpeting, scooping out, or throwing down, because you cannot be woken for approximately three hours **by any means whatsoever**. In emergency rooms, your body gives the same results as a cadaver. If people don't call 911 when you first pass out, your chances of waking up diminish rapidly the longer they leave you. Without a gag reflex, you can choke on your own saliva or vomit. Or your heart can stop. Or your...

 _She is sitting right here in front of you, Keith, look at her._

"After that, I was out of it. There were boys who fed me shots and somehow I ended up in one of the bedrooms." 

Fed her shots? Mixing GHB with alcohol heightens the depressive functions of the drug and increases the risk of coma and death...

"Alone with Beaver... with Cassidy, but he said nothing happened. And I believed him. He told me..."

Keith nearly chokes, even if he doesn't show it. 

_And he was the one who..._

"And then I found out that Duncan was with me." 

The words continue to fall out of her mouth, rushed and hurried, as if she wants to get through this as fast as possible, but Keith is reeling at this point. His brain snaps back as if she just flicked an elastic band at it. 

Duncan? Duncan fucking Kane? 

"Someone slipped him drugs, too, and he found me in the room and he swears it was consensual, he swears we both wanted it."

Of course he fucking swears... 

Keith forces himself to breathe, forces himself to swallow his anger and looks at her, looks at the fear in her eyes as she waits for him to respond. He remembers the way her face glowed when Duncan came to the door for their homecoming dance, the way she laughed with him and joked and smiled. 

He'd known they weren't the perfect couple, but he'd at least hoped that was love in the boy's eyes. 

"Then why did he leave you?"

Her eyes brim with tears and he's galled to see that she's silently begging him to understand. 

"He thought I was his sister. That's why he broke up with me, because... he knew." 

Duncan better damn well hope the FBI finds him before Keith ever does. 

"I thought, I thought after that it was better, you know? It wasn't rape." It's the first time she says the word and the first time he allows himself to think it. They both shudder. "I didn't remember, but it..."

Veronica stops and her face looks panicked, lost, as if she doesn't know where to go or how to get there. 

"It's okay."

It's pretty damn far from okay, he thinks, but he doesn't let her know it. 

"Then a few months ago, I went to the doctor and found out I had chlamydia."

_You're currently completing treatment for a sexually transmitted disease?_

"And I'd only been with Duncan and he didn't..."

_Cassidy Cassablancas was the third boy on that tape... he blew up the bus..._

"Then you said the Mayor was treated for it."

 _And he was the one who..._

"When I saw that Cassidy was the third boy..."

 _And I believed him..._

She's cowering into herself now, clutching her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. It kills him to see her like this, to imagine what the whole thing has taken from her, made her into. Kills him to think she made herself do it without him. 

"I knew. I knew he lied, I knew he..." 

He watches his daughter fall apart in front of him, looking up to the ceiling, not to see what's there, but to pour the tears back down the lacrimal glands of her eyes. 

"Cassidy Casablancas raped me when I was unconscious. And then Duncan came and left. And I don't remember any of it."

The sentence hurts him, but he knows that's nothing to what it's done to her. Those specially trained psychologists say that one of the first steps is being able to say the words out loud, that being afraid of them gives them power. 

Those specially trained psychologists are full of shit. 

Maybe he should look into getting her one. 

There are tear marks all the way down her cheeks, pooling in the top of her lip as she chokes back gasping breaths, just struggling to breathe. She's always thrived on solving mysteries, but this one punched her and then kicked her when she was down. 

"Oh, honey." 

He can't and doesn't really want to imagine the horror of what she went through, going to that school each day and wondering who had done what and who had seen what, then finding out that Duncan had been there, getting some form of relief from the imagery. 

And then being slapped down again. 

"I'm sorry you couldn't come to me with this before now."

She's so small against him, her face fits perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, her body scooped against his as she cries and she can't possibly be the tiny, foot long baby, sleek and screaming just out of her mother's womb, that they handed to him, that fit against that very spot so many years ago. 

But she is. 

Her fingers might not be half an inch long, tiny and creased and impossibly small, but they're the same shape as they fist into his shirt. 

"I love you, Dad, I love you so much." And she might be forming coherent words, but the desperate cry of need underneath is the same, the same tone and the same vocal chords. "You stayed, you stayed and you're the only one that did and you're the reason I made it. I couldn't have done it without you."

As if there was any chance he would have left her. 

He knew from the moment he held her and his large hands dwarfed her, the very second she curled up like a bean and quieted against him, he knew then that he was hopeless against her, that she owned him like no one ever had or would. 

"I love you, Dad, I do. But sometimes I want my mommy back."

She was ten when he first lied to her. Arriving home with sore shoulders and a head full of overdue reports, he'd opened the door to see her slumped in the sofa, staring at the television with a sullen look on her face and he’d known. 

_Where's your mother?  
I don't know, Dad, you tell me.  
Right then. She’s probably just running late. Why don’t we make dinner, just you and me?  
I’m not hungry. I don’t want anything.  
Really? I thought you liked icecream?  
Dad! We can’t have icecream for dinner!  
Why not?  
Because it’s dessert, not dinner.  
But what if we’re having dessert for dinner?  
Dessert for dinner?_

And later that night not even the memory of the glee that had sparked in her eyes, the sudden piqued interest that had taken over her prematurely –he’d thought- teenage drama, not even that could take away the sting that he had deliberately lied to her about Lianne. 

_I told you, I got a flat...  
I don’t care; okay Lianne? I don’t care where you were or what you were doing. Just keep it during school hours. Veronica doesn’t need this._

He’d known, even then, when he’d looked into his beautiful, vivacious, sunny bright wife’s water weak eyes that she was lying when she nodded her head, when she whispered her apologies. What he hadn’t known was that Dessert for Dinner would become an almost monthly ritual in the house and that lying to his daughter would become as easy as checking the driveway before he walked through the front door.

What he didn’t know was that years later he would be defending her in her absence, still trying to excuse her infidelities, as a wife and mother, to someone who was quickly seeing through the delicately built façade. 

That even later he would wake up in a hospital bed with the insides of his lungs and mouth and trachea burned crisp, with the skin on his hands, arms, back and face raw with itching, crusty pink scabs that bled thin, clear fluids when he managed to scratch them. 

He didn’t know he would wake to Veronica sitting next to him with her face swollen and bruised and her eyes nearly black from lack of sleep, as she spoke in a monotone, emotionless and bleak. 

_Mom’s gone. I threw her out of the house. She was still drinking; she never stopped. And she stole the Kane’s check. I got Duncan to trace it, but it’s gone. All of it; gone. That’s two college degrees she’s drunk from under me._

For everything he had sacrificed to keep Lianne there for Veronica, it had been Veronica who turned around and severed that connection for him. He hadn’t known how relieved he’d feel when it finally happened. 

His lungs didn’t seem to burn much after that. 

But he’d never been able to forget that she had, for all intents and purposes, been there when Veronica needed her, that she had done more than her fair share in raising a beautiful and strong girl that was fast growing up. 

And even then Keith knew his hard shelled, world weary daughter had missed her, had mourned for the woman that had deserved the mantle –mother-, the one that was there for birthdays and girl chats and whispered conversations about _women’s problems_ that sounded more like gossip than anything else. 

He’d never suspected that hearing Veronica admit she missed that side of her mother, that she _remembered_ that side of her mother, made him breathe even easier. 

"I am proud of you, Veronica." 

He finally says it, after they’ve both cried, after they’ve both lost themselves in their own thoughts and needed nothing but comfort. Whatever else, he needs to tell her this, needs her to know. 

"You're one of the strongest people I know."

And he sees her in there, behind the shine of tears, his bright Veronica. 

"Got it from the best."

The girl that smiled up at him from under newly shorn locks and never once let show the horrors that caused it. 

"I wish you'd told me, but I understand why you didn't."

He understands alright; he knows the words she started with are true. It was a long time ago and there’s nothing he can do to change what happened, but if she’d told him at the time, he would have destroyed himself in the battle to destroy each and every person there. 

"I think it's been a long day and you need your sleep."

They both know it’s not late, but they both know how tired each of them are. 

***

As he walks to the front door, his brain is already picking over what she’d told him and how. He can’t stop the analysis of the emotion in her voice, the fear and sorrow she’d spewed with every breath. 

Except once. 

_It was a rich person party with rich people's kids._

She’d been flat and empty and the Veronica he knew didn’t care about who she barreled over with the search for justice. In fact, the Veronica he knew took an unhealthy delight in bringing down the wealthy. 

_Shelly Pomroy's father is the Ambassador to Belgium, Mr. Embom owns an airport. The Sinclairs. The Echolls. The Kanes. Do you want me to go on? There wasn't anything I could do. I had to let it go…_

Those aren’t the words of a victim. 

Keith’s hands pause on the lock. 

“How is she? Is she okay?”

He wants to say she is, but he can’t quite do that. 

“She’s going to be.”

The lock snicks quietly in the half light and he turns to look at the silhouette on the couch, scrunched down into an uncomfortable looking pose, eyes shining through it all. 

Keith sighs. 

“I’m a little disappointed in her, though.”

The words stick in his throat and give him heartburn he surely deserves. What’s a few more lies, he thinks bitterly as he watches the surprise ride Logan’s face. 

“I thought I taught her better than that. I thought she knew what to do. She should have gone to the police, they would have helped her, she should have…”

Logan is just a kid, of legal age, sure, but still just a kid no matter how dark he likes to act. He’s just a boy who thinks he knows everything. He’s just like all the criminals who sat across the interrogation table. They think they know how to lie, that they know how to cover up the truth. 

What they don’t realize is that cases are built more often than not, not on the words that are spoken, but in the effort to cover up the ones that aren’t. 

Keith gets his answer in the sudden clenching of Logan’s jaw and the instant flicker of rage. 

_A rich person’s party, with rich peoples’ kids… had to let it go…_

Those aren’t the words of a victim. Those are the words of a cop. 

“No.” He groans a little, puts his head in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m saying, it’s not her fault. Of course it’s not.”

But Logan doesn’t say anything else and Keith doesn’t need him to. 

***

Keith sets his alarm early. 

It’s still dark out when he gets up and quietly puts his clothes on. He knows which boards to step on and how so that they don’t creak. Even when he has to stop as he sees them on the couch. 

Veronica lies on top of him and sleeps on his chest. Logan has his arms wrapped around her and his head buried in her hair. For the first time he can remember, it’s not Logan that bothers him. 

He has things to do. 

The bin in the kitchen was emptied the day before. And he knows Veronica is smarter than that, too smart to do something so obvious, but he remembers how upset she was when he got home, remembers the solicitous way they’d all hovered around her. Veronica is too smart for it, but Logan, Mac, Wallace and Dick aren’t. 

Before he gets in his car, Keith plans to check the dumpster for anything flat enough to be buried under a carpet. When he finds it, and hopefully it won’t take that long, he plans to get in his car and drive. 

Drive across town and sit outside a small, modest, unassuming house whose occupant is known to get in his car and begin the drive to work at exactly seven thirty am every morning. 

Keith plans to have a little chat with Donald Lamb. 

***


	14. fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lives can be drastically changed in the space of three hours, especially in Neptune, California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** R (dark themes, a few choice words, maybe a risqué scene).   
> **Character/Pairing:** Ensemble. Logan/Veronica.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. Rob Thomas owns all VM related things.   
> **Wordcount:** 11,188.  
>  **Spoilers:** And then some, baby. It's 2.22 "Not Pictured" all the way.   
> **Summary:** It’s another sunny day in Neptune f***ing California.   
> **Warnings:** None, really, except SPOILERS for 2.22.
> 
> EVERYONE'S POV. 
> 
> **Any views expressed in this fic by any character connected to the name 'Lamb' or 'Casablancas' is not necessarily the viewpoint of the author.

*~*~*~*  
 **MOLASSES AND TAFFY, part fourteen.**  
*~*~*~*

His routines don't change. 

At six am he swears at his alarm clock and hits the snooze button, even though he deliberately places it two feet past arm's reach from his bed so that he won't do just that. 

At six twenty five, he finally drags his fist through his hair and forces his eyes to open. 

At six thirty, he leans his head back, stares at the chipped paint of his bathroom ceiling and groans as he takes a well-earned piss. 

The next half an hour is dedicated to the careful cleaning and maintenance of his body. He showers, using the specially scented male shower gel that lathers exactly how he likes it, and washes his hair. He shaves, the blade gliding over the coarse bristles on his chin before he slaps on the expensive aftershave he shouldn't be able to afford, but insists on using. He checks his face in the mirror for any kind of blemish or stray hair that might need plucking. He examines his nails and files them if they need it. He licks the sheen on his minty white teeth. 

His uniform sits neatly pressed on the back of a chair, meticulously laundered and ironed the night before. The collar is crisp and the sleeves are straight. The material is firm enough to scratch pleasantly. His belt shines just so. So do the buttons on his shirt. 

And his badge always gleams. 

The only thing that separates this day's routine from the million other in his life is that it's a half hour earlier than usual. 

It's another glorious day in sunny Neptune fucking California and he has to get to work early so that he can sit around and be treated like a retard from Bumfuck Idaho who can't even get hired at Kmart. 

Just for the record, he hates the state police. He hates the federal police. And he'd probably hate any International forces that came by if they were so inclined. In fact, he hates any kind of law enforcement that isn't him. It's his goddamn town and they don't even have the basic manners to pretend like they care. 

If they ask him to get them coffee one more time, he's going to spit in it. Right after he laces it with rat poison. 

Goddamn them, goddamn them all to hell. 

It's just not enough that his whole office has exploded, is it? That instead of spending the weekend getting quietly buzzed on moderately priced beer, cheap snacks and even cheaper jokes around the smoky poker table of his friend's house, washing his weekend car that never sees the office and really doesn't need to be cleaned, telling people he's watching grainy black and white movies on cable when he's really watching grainier almost porn and dragging his feet by processing the Navarro kid's paper work as slow as possible, instead of all this his entire office has had a fucking embolism. 

And somehow, just somehow, it all revolves around Keith fucking Mars and his daughter. 

Fuck Woody Goodman. Fuck him, fuck the horse he rode in on, fuck the nubile wench that fed honey and hay to the horse Woody rode in on, fuck the old hag that gave birth to the nubile wench that fed the hose, fuck the Jesuit priest who knocked up the old hag that gave birth to the wench. Just fuck them all. 

It's just not enough that he arrested Eduardo 'Thumper' Orozco's real murderer, is it? No. Keith Mars had to go chase down Woody Goodman who molested all those boys. Veronica Mars had to chase down Cassidy Casablancas who blew up the bus and then Woody's plane. 

It's all well and good for them to claim the glory and ride off into the sunset, but he's the one left dealing with the crap load of paperwork that just landed on his desk. Piles of it. Insurmountable forests worth of it. Not to mention all the shit involved with tying up the loose ends. 

Nobody ever thinks of him. Not once. 

As it is, Eli Navarro sits forgotten in the holding cells and Lamb wonders if anyone cares or remembers. Wonders idly if the truth has trickled back there with whoever's been bringing the boy his three meals a day. 

He's a busy man; he takes his fun where he can get it. 

And two nights ago, he got a small measure of it in the back of the holding cells. 

_Hey man, what's all this noise? What's going on?  
I don't have time for you, Navarro, this place has gone to shit. It's gonna take a few extra days to sort you out. So don't cause trouble, sit pretty, and you'll be fine.   
Why? What happened?  
They found out who planted the bomb on the bus is what happened. Now I have a herd of drunken high school graduates up there as witnesses.   
High school...?  
Yeah, that's right. Pity you weren't there, hey? You could've saved a whole lotta trouble for your pretty little friend. She just sucks all the psychotic murdering wannabes out of the woodwork, doesn't she? Sweet Miss Mars.  
V? What happened to Veronica?  
Oh, she'll be fine eventually, Eli. Don't you worry; she's been held at gunpoint before. In fact, I think she gets a kick out of it. She seems the sort to have some hidden kinks, don't you think?  
Gunpoint? Just tell me, man, what happened? Is she okay?  
As okay as anyone can be when they're forced to watch their father murdered. Sure.   
Mr. Mars? Keith Mars is dead? Hey! Hey, where are you goin' man? Tell me what happened! Hey, come back!_

Good times. 

God, people are easy to push when you know their buttons.

For now, though, for now he has his own buttons and one of which is the fact that there's a stray thread of cotton peeking out from the seam of his right front pants pocket. It's going to worry him all day; he knows it. 

When the feds look him up and down he knows they're going to focus straight in on that one little imperfection. When he sits down to inhale a stale vending machine sandwich, his fingers will worry it until he pulls it further loose. Then, he knows, every time someone looks at him they're not going to see the effort gone into caring for the rest of his clothes, just that he has pants fraying at the seams. 

He's tempted to go back to his closet and change, to use one of his spare sets, also pressed and hung and creaseless. But he doesn't have time. A fed car will be by to pick him up soon. 

Yet another reason he hates the circus his office has become. 

The press has become almost rabid with their need for quotes, bleating and braying and demanding. Especially when it comes to him, stuffing their mikes in his face and demanding to know what it feels like _to have failed again._

Just brilliant, he thinks, thanks for asking. 

So now Lamb has to hurry just so he's not caught with his pants down by a bunch of snooty nosed feds who'll no doubt run off and tell their even snootier nosed bosses that their suspicions are confirmed and he can't find his own asshole with a map and a compass. 

Fuck. 

He opens the door and the day hits him right in the face. More specifically, a hand connected with the day. It's not like a hit in the movies with the loud, sound byte quality crack and his neck snapping back in a painful looking arc, no, it's a slow squelch as large fingers close around his face. 

Tight, painfully tight fingers press into his skull and cheek and chin, with a thumb just at the corner of his eye. His feet slide on the ground as he tries to pull out, his arms rising quickly, even as he's maneuvered so that his back slams into the front wall of the entrance. 

The sun shines brightly and the sound of the lawnmower doesn't even flicker. 

"Who the...?"

"Morning deputy."

Oh, _fuck_.

"Dammit, Keith." He forces himself to still, to slide from defense straight into his well practiced oil slick veneer of not actually caring. "It's too early for this shit."

"No." The hand relaxes a little and Lamb sees a glint in Keith's eyes that threatens to put a real dint in his practiced veneer. "It's well past. You know what this is?"

His eyes grasp at the flash of black in front of his face. It looks like string, like a tattered piece of thick string with some sort of pattern that Keith's hand moves too fast for Lamb to really distinguish. 

"You know, I haven't checked in a while." Lamb makes his voice light and unconcerned, because he's not going to let Keith get the upper hand, not here and not now. "But I'm fairly sure there are laws against assaulting an officer."

There's a gleam in Keith's eyes, a deep-seated knowledge that chills Lamb to the bone. 

Suddenly he's taken back ten years to the first time he walked through the doors of the courthouse and shook his new boss' hand. Happy blue eyes and a wide smile, a round face and the thought somewhere in the back of his head _how can he be Sheriff?_

Nice men don't have the balls to do what's needed. But he'd learned quickly enough, those first few months, during their first hit on a Fitzpatrick house and another arrest after a man beat on his wife and kid, nice did not describe Keith Mars. 

He had kind blue eyes that turned icy even as they heated up with anger and the easy smile that made officers laugh at the weekend cookout fell away and became a scowl that made people stop breathing. 

Keith Mars was not a nice man, Donald Lamb had learned that with a finality that never left him, he was a righteous man. And that's what made him Sheriff. 

"You're not an officer." Keith sneers into his face. "You'll never be an officer of any law in this country."

And Lamb has a brief second of believing that, finally, Keith has snapped and come to fulfill his three year long dream of actually admitting he's _jealous_ , that it _burns_ when he sees Lamb in his uniform and his patrol car and his desk and his office _every single day_. 

Then there's a slight tightening, a warning, and Lamb knows that's a fantasy too good to come true. 

"I asked you a question."

Low, predatory, growled, Lamb has heard Keith's voice like this many times before, just never aimed at him. 

"I don't know." He shrugs, the picture of calm even as a slight whistling echoes the air that slides in and out of his nose pushed at a weird angle. "It's a bit of cloth."

"A bit of...?" Keith lets go and Lamb gasps, trying to get large gulps of fresh air, even though he hadn't had any trouble breathing. "Yeah, it's a bit of cloth. It's a choker. The kind a girl might wear. With a white dress. To a party."

Oh. Oh, _fuuuuuuuuuuuuck._

Lamb does recognize it now and he goes limp against the wall, even without the hands holding him there. 

Keith ruled the streets of Neptune as a righteous man, but Lamb rules them by playing the game. He's political, from the carefully trimmed hair on his head down to the double shined shoes on his feet. He smiles at the right people, greases the right palms, and steps on the right rungs of the political ladder. 

It's not his fault one of the rungs was a girl with bad timing. 

Blind, dumb luck, really, that's all it was. That's the only thing that made him swallow anything resembling concern he might have had for his old boss' daughter, a girl he'd known for years. A week earlier, a week later, and things might have been markedly different. 

But it was then and there's nothing he can do to change his stance now. 

He remembers her walking into his office, broken and scared and pleading with him for help, asking for justice. And he remembers thinking of nothing but the cold look in Celeste Kane's eyes as she'd all but threatened him the night before. 

That woman had no heart. 

Few people could look at photographic evidence that they're prosecuting the wrong man for their teenage daughter's death without flinching. Even fewer would look him in the eye and deny those shoes were the same, would coolly, calmly suggest he forget even looking. If only for the sake of himself and his family. He remembers the perfectly manicured nails, sharp as razors, which had primped his collar as he'd finally nodded. 

Donald Lamb hadn't particularly cared about the Kanes ruining the rest of his family, but he had, and still has now, a marked interest in them not destroying him. Celeste's crisp voice is still clear in his head, even years later, detailing exactly how he'd been primed to take over the role of Sheriff and how the same influence could be used against him if it even looked like he was trying to back out of the deal. 

So he'd destroyed the damning evidence and he should have known. Should have damn well known Keith Mars would have a copy. 

So he'd been sitting in his chair that morning trying to think of a way to get thrown out of a job that was suddenly looking too greased for his tastes without it looking like he was trying to weasel out of it, when the answer happened to walk into his office with tear tracks down her cheeks. 

No one would stand for a Sheriff that did that sort of thing; that treated a young girl like that. Except they did. And he learned to play the game with flair. Then he learned to like it. Veronica isn't the only life he's ruined for the sake of powerful ties and access to the right people; she certainly won't be the last. 

She was just the first and the hardest to swallow. 

He knows that the shoulder blades of his shirt will have pilling from catching on the rough brick that makes up the wall, if the scratching of the skin underneath is anything to go by. He knows that he just doesn't care anymore. 

"And?"

Not exactly the best retort he's ever come up with, but he's trying to catch a breath, trying to figure out what to say and when. 

This has been a long time coming and it's a more dangerous position than he'd been in as he'd stood near the feds taking Veronica's statement yesterday. That heart stopping moment when she'd told about the rape and they'd asked, those goddamn feds had asked her why she hadn't reported it earlier. 

Veronica had looked up and met his eyes and there'd been the shared knowledge between them, the truth of _how to end one man's career_ and then she'd blinked and shrugged and said something about lack of evidence and rich boys parents. 

All the bullshit he'd fed to her. 

Keith Mars won't take his job. Keith Mars will take his life. 

"And?" Keith chokes on it, spluttering over the word. "And? Is that all you can say?"

Donald Lamb smiles, because there's only one thing to do in a situation with no way out, lips stretching over pearly white teeth. 

"What do you want me to say, Keith?" He can see the shimmers of rage pouring off the man and it only makes him stand straighter. "A girl goes to a party and gets a reputation like that..."

The fist hits him first, loud and hard and painful. This time it's just like the movies. There was probably even a spurt of blood and he has the sudden urge to turn and look at the wall, wondering if there'll be a spray pattern of some kind, but he won't give Keith that satisfaction. 

_This is for setting me up for the fall at the electoral debate._

God, people are easy to push when you know their buttons.

Keith isn't putting his heart into it, because this isn't anything close to what he needs, so Lamb has to try harder. 

"She was sixteen!" Fists bunch up the front of his shirt, stretching the material to its limit and tightening against his neck. "You stupid son of a... Sixteen!"

Like that makes it any worse. Like it would have been perfectly fine if she'd only been a few years older. 

"You know what they say." Lamb sneers instead. "Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed."

The fist hits him in the stomach next and he doubles over. He wonders if Keith wants to know why he's not fighting back. He coughs a little and feels something sharp in his belly. 

_This is for winning the election._

Still not hard enough. 

"What happened?" Keith drags him upright again, face against his. "You tell me what happened!"

The man in front of him has one very big button and her name is Veronica. 

"There's nothing to say." He'd like to sound calm, but it comes out kinda hissed and that bothers him more than anything, he doesn't show weakness. "She came in, cried foul after a party, you know the rest. They must've gotten wild, she looked trashed."

His eyes see a flash of green behind Keith's shoulder and he can't help the little burst of disappointment at the idea that the feds are here already, this day just got interesting. But the car disappears down the street and doesn't stop. 

"They raped her!" It's a hot gust of fetid air in his face. "They raped her and you did nothing!"

They? Well that's new. 

_And you say it was Cassidy Casablancas who did this to you?  
Yes. He admitted to it on the roof.   
And you're sure he acted alone?  
That's what he said._

His eyebrows arch and he's fairly sure it looks as if he's having fun. At least, he hopes so. 

"I wouldn't say 'nothing', Keith. You might have taught her everything she knows." A man shouldn't leave his buttons lying around if he doesn't want them pushed. "But it looks like I gave her a fucking backbone that day."

His toes scramble at the cement when he's lifted up and off the wall. Air is expelled loudly from his lungs when his back hits it again. 

_This is for never doing your job._

He laughs. 

"Bet that wasn't the only bone she got, huh?"

The side of Keith's forearm lands solidly against his underbelly, effectively doubling him over. Lamb wheezes as he stares at the welcome mat under Keith's feet. It's starting to fray. 

_This is for taking my job in the first place._

"You're a coward, Lamb. You're nothing but a coward. You couldn't even face me; you had to take out your petty little vendetta on a young girl! It wasn't personal before, but I'm telling you now, everything has changed."

"Nothing's changed, we both know that. There's not a fucking thing you can do, Keith, not one." He coughs a little. "Life is gonna go right on, whether you like it or not and trouble's just gonna find her like it always does. One of these days she's gonna bite off more than she can chew and I'll be there, watching with glee, I promise you that, Keith."

There's a small chuckle from above him and there's nothing funny about it. 

"You're pathetic, you know that?" There must be cue cards, Lamb thinks, with stock phrases for those who try to beat him down. They really need to update. The phrases haven't changed in decades. "I can't believe I ever thought you were a worthy deputy, you couldn't solve a child's riddle book."

"Don't need to, do I?" His lungs burn with each breath and he grins. "If anything difficult comes along, I just need to question one of the legion that surrounds her, hell, just bring you down to the station once and I know she'll solve it for me. Regular as fucking clockwork."

There's one thing Lamb knows about smiley-faced nice men popular in the community. They explode just like everyone else. He's spent his entire life learning that fact. Behind closed doors, they grow second heads and a cold look in their eyes. And they do things so unthinkable that no one really dares think about them.

Almost no one. 

"If I ever see you near my daughter again, I swear to god... I swear..."

He chokes out a laugh and hopes it doesn't sound as bitter to Keith as it does to him. 

"You swear what? Huh, Keith? What do you swear?" Time to take one long, last heave against Keith's sore spot, and press it hard. "That you're going to risk everything you have on the word of a lying slu..."

 _And THIS is for Veronica._

He feels the knee in his jaw, hears the loud crunch, and tastes blood. 

That's when the rest of the world reappears. The sun glinting in his eyes and the sound of his neighbor's lawnmower come back into focus. And, most importantly, comes the crunch of tires over the gravel of his driveway. 

Lamb spits on the ground, a big ball of saliva and pinkish blood, and grins as he straightens himself, feeling his body ache and protest as he does. 

"Sheriff Lamb?" Comes the rushed voice. "Sheriff Lamb, are you okay?"

Footsteps pound up the front path.

He meets Keith's eyes. 

"Of course I'm okay." He swallows heavily. "Mr. Mars and I were just discussing a problem he's been having lately."

His tongue pushes against a particularly wobbly tooth and it comes loose, bobbing around his mouth like a wad of gum. 

"Keith." He can't hold back the grin as he slides his arm up and around Keith's frozen shoulders. "These are Special Agents Grant and Woods. They've been assigned to protect me from the press and other low life scum that might want to hurt me."

He sucks at the tooth, pulling all the blood and slimy gore away from it as his tongue rolls it around. It's even better than a wad of gum, he thinks, he just might keep it there all day, working it back and forth. 

There isn't any way in the world to miss the suspicious glances the agents are giving Keith, looking back and forth between him and Lamb. And there is no way to miss the fury that is radiating off Keith in waves. But he smiles and that's all that's keeping them at bay. 

"You know, Keith." He says, quite cheerily, and pats Keith's stomach with his free hand, like they're best friends and always have been. "We can always get some agents assigned to you, if you think your problem might come back anytime soon."

The threat is there and they both know it. 

Keith works his jaw. 

"No." The word is gritted out and Lamb knows how bitter it has to taste. "I'm going."

He waits at the door and watches with the agents as Keith walks stiffly down the path and back to the car parked across the street. 

"Fuck." Lamb gently probes the swelling around his jaw and winces, knowing that being ten minutes late isn't going to make the feds' opinion of him any worse after this. "I have to get changed. You guys wait out here."

***  
***

"Logan." It's a singsong voice, light and airy, that calls to him. "Logan."

He blinks his way back to consciousness and smiles into the warm bundle he has in his arms. Sometime in the middle of the night they changed position. He remembers being drowsy and barely awake when he felt her walk into the living room and he'd expected her to lie down on the floor again. Instead, she'd lowered herself down on top of him, resting her head on his chest and burrowing her arms around his waist. 

Now they're both on their sides, Veronica having slipped between him and the back of the couch, and she's shifted, moved up so that she has her face buried in his neck and his is buried in hers, their arms thrown over each other. 

It's weird, he thinks, because he has slept with many girls, women too, beyond counting them. And yet, at this moment, he can't quite remember waking up to a single one before now. 

Logan tightens his arm around her waist and pulls her closer. 

"Logan!" She hisses, still in a whisper, and her hand tightens around his back and pulls him towards her. "You're gonna tip us both over."

True, he realizes, where she has the back of the couch behind her, he has nothing but empty space and the edges of a coffee table waiting to severely hamper his kidneys. 

So he does the only thing he can think of. He pushes forward, saving both their lives as he presses her against the soft cushions. He's a hero; they're going to write songs. 

"Morning." 

He says it into the skin of her neck, feeling his breath come back into his face warm and puffed. His left arm is heavy and aching, crushed underneath them both, but he really doesn't care. He'll let it fall off if he has to. 

"You know." Her fingers tap on his shoulder and he can picture the amused expression on her face as she turns it up towards fresh air. "We should really get up."

"Mmmm."

It could be agreement, a murmur of acknowledgement that she's most likely right and they should find a more suitable position before Keith Mars walks out to find them. 

Or it could be a statement of exactly how delicious he finds her neck when his mouth seals itself over her pulse point. 

Logan has waited a long time, too long, to hear that surprised gasp she gives when he does it, to feel her body against his as she arches. His knee pushes gently between hers and the fingers of her left hand curl around his right elbow even as her right hand squirms up between them and pushes against his chest. 

"Seriously." There's a smile in her voice, warm and thick, and he thrills to it. "We have things to do."

"I'm not moving." He insists as he leans his mouth up to kiss the underside of her chin. "Are you kidding? The second you get up, there'll be a rifle trained on my back. Having you here is the only thing saving me from being shot."

She giggles and he gives a dramatic sigh. 

"I don't care how long it takes, Veronica, we're stuck here."

"There's a serious flaw in your logic." Her voice has gone from a whisper to a low husk that makes him shiver. "If I'm your shield, why is your back exposed?"

His hand draws circles on her hip as she angles her face down to look at him. 

"Because." Logan pushes up to kiss the edges of her mouth. "This is worth getting shot in the ass."

She breaks into a laugh, full and throaty. 

It's not even that yesterday he told her he loved her, because that's no surprise, not to anyone that has been paying attention. And it's not that they both admitted to being unsure, but wanting to try anyway, because Logan felt they knew that the moment she wound her arms around him on the roof and he cradled her. 

Logan remembers, with perfect clarity because he's been going over it again and again and again all night, even in his dreams, that moment she looked at him and her eyes were clear.

 _I trust you._

He's screwed up more with Veronica than anyone has a right to come back from. She has made mistakes with him, too, but there's a difference. Hers were never vicious, were never aimed straight at him to cause the maximum amount of pain. His were. 

The one thing he knows he doesn't deserve: her trust. 

And she gave it willingly. 

"C'mon." She squirms against him, not really trying to get away, just trying to move. "I'm serious. I have to pack for New York. Look."

He watches the sides of her ribs stretch as she arches her arm over her head to reach for something out of his line of sight. When she relaxes, her whole body seems to shrink back into the space between him and the couch. 

A piece of paper waves in front of his face. 

_Veronica, PACK._

"That's it." The way her nose crinkles in mock offense makes him smile. "That's all he left."

"Wait." And Logan shifts back a little, anchors himself upright on his elbows as he scans the apartment behind him. "Does that mean he's not here?"

"Yup." Her eyes glitter as she nods. "He left one for you, too."

An object taped to the bottom weighs down the paper she hands him. 

_Logan, I was going to drop Backup off with Cliff McCormick, but if you're staying you might as well make yourself useful. There's dog food in the cupboard under the sink and his leash hangs on the key hook by the door. Do NOT give Backup human food, even if he begs._

_Ps. Tell Veronica to pack for one week only. She has a one bag limit. It's the middle of summer; she does not need five overcoats._

_I will meet you both at the office at eight._

"Huh." His fingers trace the small key attached to the page, the key to the apartment. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Veronica's eyes spark up and her face takes on the teasing glow that makes him want to kiss her again. 

"That we're alone and he's not going to shoot at you?"

"Yes, that, but..." 

Logan struggles to keep from laughing when she keeps pressing forward, keeps interrupting his words with tiny little kisses. They haven't suddenly slipped back twelve months, as if all the time in between the last night they were truly happy and now didn't exist. 

It isn't a return to what they were before, because it's been a long year and too much has happened to gloss over it and forget. What it is, is finally getting free of the stasis, the eternal pause they've been in, finally being able to move forward. 

And he's fairly sure he likes it. 

"But..." He pushes her lips away with his finger, his other hand still wrapped around her tiny waist. "...it also means he saw us and I'm still alive. I think Keith Mars approves."

Veronica smiles awkwardly and buries herself back into his neck. 

There are so many things that smile could mean. 

_Isn't it nice?  
Oh, aren't you cute? My father still carries a gun.   
He'll never approve.  
Your hipbone is cutting off my circulation and I will never bear children. Thank you so much._

"C'mon." She says suddenly, hands pushing down on him as she tries to scramble up. "I've really got to pack now."

"Soon." 

It's a growl, low and predatory, and he feels her shudder with it. 

He moves suddenly, gripping her waist hard and pulling her close at the same time he lifts himself up by his toes and free hand. She's under him before either of them can blink and the arm of the couch hits the back of her neck softly. 

Her eyes go wide and she gasps, mouth splitting open, as he grinds down on her and they both feel how hard he is. 

There's no hesitation, because he knows. 

He doesn't need time to think about it, he feels it, feels it in the way her hand cups the side of his ribs on the right hand side. There's a small groove there, an indentation small enough to miss. None of them had. 

Lilly, his brain skips over the name, her hands had traced the line once and only once, she'd never gone back to that spot, but she knew. _And fucked his father anyway._ Kendall had skimmed it once, her eyes narrowing, but she never mentioned it, _because fuck buddies didn't talk._ Hannah had found it and her face screwed up, eyes widening and mouth forming a little 'oh' before she'd petted it. Petted it like he needed _her fucking pity._

But Veronica, every time they'd shucked their shirts and felt each other up, she'd found it. He doesn't know if she even realizes what she's doing as she slides her index finger over it, right at the point where they're gasping, and just _pushes_. 

Logan can see her standing with tears in her eyes, begging him to put the photos down, begging him not to look. He can see her taking his hands and showing him, placing them exactly where the scars would be if they were permanent. 

He kisses her hard, not pulling back and not asking her if she's okay. She is not a victim any more than he is. 

"Logan." She says his name into his mouth and he can't stop his hands from finding the edges of her shirt as her hands grab the sides of his face. "God, Logan."

And this is different; they both know it, different to the other night. Because she is here with him and she's not thinking about a million other things and trying not to. 

"I'm going to be late." She laughs into the folds of her shirt as he pulls it up over her head. "Seriously, I have to..."

"Pack." He finishes for her, whispering the words into the side of her neck and down the front of her collarbone. "How long can it take? A few shirts."

He lifts his arms so she can take his off and he grabs the sides of her hips, holding her torso down as he begins kissing his way down between her breasts. 

"Bras." 

She's still gasping, the sound of her breath coming from just above his head and the feel of it pushing up and down under his mouth. 

"Some jeans." The word teases as his hand comes around to play at the front of her sleep pants. "Socks."

Her hands claw at him, grasping his shoulders and pulling him back up, he grins at her before leaning down to kiss her again. 

"Underwear?" She breathes softly. 

He can feel the twinkle in his eyes. 

"God, you are impatient, aren't you?"

She slaps his shoulder lightly and he laughs. 

***  
***

His kitchen, he thinks about that for a second, the word bouncing around his head, _his_ kitchen, his, his, his, his kitchen is large and well spaced, the lines are smooth and the design is flawless. Kendall designed and decorated it with the help of a Feng Shui specialist last year. 

Dick Casablancas cannot give a flying fuck about the Feng Shui. 

The room is too big and too cold and there's nothing that says people inhabit it. The entire house is exactly the same. There's nothing that stamps them on any surface. 

A stranger walking inside would have no clue that somewhere in the world there is a man who supposedly owns the house, who spent his nights inside the walls and his life outside of work here. They wouldn't have any idea, barring one locked room upstairs now currently trashed from the police, that a sad little fucked up boy lived here until a few days ago. 

It's stupid, completely dumb and stupid as he opens the fridge and blinks into the light, looking for cold water. Just too damned stupid that he can't stop thinking about the small little apartment he was in the day before. Barely even a box, god, their laundry is bigger than Ronnie's whole entire house. 

But he knew who lived there. Saw it in the bright orange pit bull print framed on the wall, the baseball memorabilia on the shelves, mixed with framed photos. Nobody had seen him look, but he had and he can't get those frames out of his head. 

A little girl, barely even four, with blonde hair and bright eyes, standing next to a sandcastle, baggy pink bathing suit hanging off her shapeless hips and grains crusting the sides of her legs. The same girl years later, blonde hair and bright eyes, standing proud next to a legion of other green shorted, knee high socked team mates as they held onto a trophy. 

Keith Mars. Ronnie. Even their goddamn dog. Frame after frame of the same people. Some woman he thought could be Ronnie's mom, he'd seen her before, but he couldn't remember, really. 

Yeah, he thinks, but their Feng Shui probably sucks. 

"God." The voice grates down his spine. "Don't you look shocking?"

He slams the fridge door shut and turns to glare at Kendall. 

"Where the fuck were you yesterday?"

She grins at him, perfectly tanned shoulders and gleaming eyes as she sits at the bench. 

"I..." Her hand glides up and, with it, a brief case. It lands on the bench with a swoosh. "...was getting some absolutely fabulous news." 

He doesn't answer her; he knows it'll probably take her a few seconds to grasp exactly what she's said. Even if she doesn't care. He can tell the exact moment her grin falters and her hand shakes as it hovers over the case. 

"I mean... you know." Her eyes turn sympathetic. "Apart from..."

"Whatever." Dick grabs an apple from a fruit bowl. _The fuck?_ When did they get a fruit bowl? "Stupid git brought it on himself."

The red skin of the apple glows as he turns it over and over in his hand. His stomach growls and eddies, protesting the thought of him actually eating it. It's this stage in hangovers that's usually devoted to more beer, or something particularly greasy that can only be gotten driving through a place with a window and static-y speakers. 

He refuses to think about conversations where things are actually _said._

"Look, Dick." And he refuses to hear the goddamned pity in her voice, like she's suddenly grown a heart. "If there's anything I can do..."

Fuck this shit. 

"Yeah." He meets her eyes in a challenge. "There is. I'm throwing a party tonight. A big one. We'll need lots of alcohol. And you gone."

"Fine." And if he thought about it, he'd be suspicious that she doesn't even pretend to argue with him. "I'll get your liquor and I'll give you the night, but you better enjoy it."

It's the too smart gleam in her eye; the twist of her mouth as she smiles that tips him off. 

"'Cause I hate to break it to you, but this is your last one."

"What?" 

There's something wrong with the walls that make them spin like that, pulsing in and out. There's something wrong with the world when Kendall looks smug and almost pleased that he's confused. 

"I had a nice long conversation with Lee yesterday." Her fingernails, perfectly manicured and an inch too long, click over the top of the case. "Oh, and your mother on the phone."

"Huh?"

"Well." Click. Click. _Fucking_ click. "It seems as if your brother left me a very rich woman. I signed all the papers yesterday, you can look them over if you want, but basically they amount to the fact that I paid off all your father's debts and mortgages and I own everything. Including this house."

The case snicks open and she slides a bunch of papers over the marble of the bench. The case snaps closed. 

"That doesn't..." Dick has to swallow. He really wishes he'd managed to get that water. "That doesn't mean anything. I've got my..."

Her eyebrows arch. 

"Your trust fund? Yes, that's where your mother comes in." God, she's enjoying every single second of this and he hates her. "Funny thing, it seems that with Cassidy gone, all his money goes to you."

He hadn't thought of that. 

"The amount of your fund doubled overnight, Dick, which drastically changes everything and papers had to be redrawn." The little frown of concern on her face is as false as her breasts; he knows it. "We had a little chat, Lee, your mother and I."

Click. Click. Her nails echo the pulse thundering in his brain. 

"She feels, and I agree wholeheartedly, that too much money is a bad thing for someone of your tender years." He wants to rip that damned briefcase out of her grasp. "The only reason she signed it over in the first place is because your father left you with nothing to tide you over in the meantime."

And then it becomes grotesquely, horribly clear. 

"But now that I'm so very independently wealthy, that's not quite a concern anymore." She spells it out anyway. "Being overseas for most of the year, your mother signed control of your trust fund over to me."

It's a split second, barely even that, as her eyes narrow and her mouth sets in a straight line. 

"So listen up, Little Dick, here's how it's going to go. Your money is safe and it'll be there when you turn twenty-one, if... and only if... you get your godammed act together."

He watches her breathe and is glad that someone in the room can do that, because he sure can't. 

"You're going to graduate summer school and you're going to find some college, somewhere, that takes late admissions. Even if it's a local community college you need to donate an entire wing to. Capiche?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, which is good in a way, because he just doesn't have one left. Her arm reaches down behind the counter and brings something up with a big flourish. 

It's black with little white flashes of lace trimming. 

Kendall's grin widens. 

"And here's what you'll be wearing when you dust my armoire."

And not even he can complain, because he recognizes it and knows he was just as heartless and cruel to her. 

_Guess what, Dick? Consequences for your actions are a bitch._

"Oh." Kendall stands up and she reaches out, dragging one nail down the side of his cheek. "And I like my coffee black, very bitter, and my toast light brown, not burned."

Dick lets his head fall down to the bench with a thud. 

"Toodles." 

***  
*** 

He hears her start to shuffle around the house, the familiar sounds that mean she's awake and about to start her day. He's been sitting on the couch in the middle of the living room for hours. Since well before the sun came up. 

"Hey Ma?" Wallace calls. "Can I ask you something?"

She comes to the doorway and her face is a mixture of concern and anger. He can see in the tight lines of her eyes that she still has many things to say to him about running off to Paris without telling her, even if he didn't quite make it and only got to Brooklyn, still has many things to say about the state he came home in last night. 

"What?"

But she's not going to make a big deal of it right now, because she prefers her lectures to have a captive audience without hangovers. They have more impact that way and she won't have to feel guilty for laying it on thick. 

"Did he ever regret it?"

His finger runs a circle over the scrawl of pen, slightly faded, over the page he's been holding. 

"Sorry?" Her face blanks out as she takes a step towards him. "Who did what?"

"Dad." Wallace doesn't look up, he keeps his eyes strictly downcast, but he knows her face is softening even as he says it. "Did he ever regret signing my birth certificate?"

It's a heavy, loaded second of silence before he feels the sofa bow down by her weight settling next to him. 

"Hank Fennel never even thought to regret doing that. You were his son." Her hand joins his on the page. "Why are you asking this now?"

Their hands, he's never noticed it before, but their hands are nearly identical. The creases of their knuckles, the whorls of fingerprints and fine lines etched into the skin. 

He folds the faded paper and puts it back in the file that sits open on the table, sighing as he leans back and not complaining at all when he feels Alicia's arm snaking back around his shoulders as she leans with him. 

"No reason."

It's been years since he let her fuss over him, years since he frowned up at her in front of his grade school and demanded she stopped kissing his forehead like a baby. 

They sit back against the sofa and stare off at anything that isn't each other. 

"Can I ask you something else?"

Her hand squeezes his a little.

"Do I even want to know? What?"

"What's a good present for a kid? Say, two years old?"

He can feel her tense up. 

"Wallace Fennel!"

"What?" Then it hits him. "No! Ma, no. It's... Jackie. She has a kid. I saw her in New York and she has a son."

"Jackie?" There it is, he can see it, the same little curl of her lip that Veronica tries to hide as well. He knows neither of them like Jackie, but he's still grateful that they try for his sake. "She... she has a son and you want to send him gifts? Is it too much to ask why?"

It's not too much at all, he even knows what he's going to say, he's been thinking of nothing else all morning. 

"We're not starting anything. She's staying there and I'm staying here. It's over." 

Funny, how he can keep his voice so flat. 

"But?" Alicia prods him. 

It's the kind of voice that makes him think maybe her lectures have all melted away. 

"But I don't wanna end it badly, you know? And I can't send her something without sending the wrong message. I figure, sending something for the kid, a toy or whatever, is neutral."

Alicia sighs and squeezes his hand again. 

"I think I did something right with you, you know?"

He grins. 

"Yeah. 'Course, it's me, isn't it?"

"So..." He knows by the interest that rides her voice what she's asking. "How's Veronica?"

"She's okay." He smiles. "And Mr. Mars is just fine, too. You should talk to him sometime."

"Hey." She chides him softly. "I'll stay out of your love life when you stay out of mine, deal?"

He nods. 

"C'mon." She takes her hand out of his and stands up with an energy that's not real. "There's plenty of things to do today. Don't you have any friends in this state, not on holiday, that you can call?"

Wallace thinks about it for a second and then smiles slowly as he nods and reaches for the phone. 

***  
***

There's not much to do in her room but think. 

She thinks about a shy boy who held her hand and traced patterns on the webbing of skin that spanned the space between her thumb and forefinger. A boy who blushed. A boy with dark hair and soft eyes that didn't laugh when she said her real name was Cindy. 

She thinks about a shy boy who stripped her naked, an act which had absolutely nothing to do with taking her clothes. 

Mac's room is a tribute to herself. There are prints and posters on the wall that cover any space not currently occupied by bookshelves. Several books lay, dog eared and marked, scattered around the room, waiting for her to decide what mood she's in before she picks up the right one. Colors and patterns and little items that meant so much to her a week ago. 

She stares out the window, instead, and watches the branches of their Redwood tree scratch the glass. It's always been there and she can't remember it ever growing, but somewhere along the line it did. The small, thin twigs stretch out and create fingers that look bony and skeletal. 

The sun sparkles through the clusters of leaves. 

She thinks about Veronica, a girl with a zest for life and the spirit to follow things through to the very end. Thinks about a girl who stood in front of her, yesterday, in tears as she explained how she was raped and what it did to her. 

Mac tries not to think about the shy boy who made Cindy smile and Veronica cry. 

There's a small knock on her door, soft and gentle. Everything is soft and gentle in this house. Ryan hasn't spoken out loud in days and he keeps giving her wide eyed frightened looks, as if she's going to explode, before he's hushed and shooed away by her parents who give her the same look. 

She lies on her bed, eyes drifting out the window, and thinks about a rich girl who hates the world and loves the fact that everyone despises her. A girl who doesn't know how lucky she really is. 

She tries not to wonder if that girl would have let the shy boy hold her hand. 

"Cindy?" Her mother's soft, _always soft now_ voice floats into the room. "Are you okay? There's a telephone call for you."

She thinks about the dozens of email messages waiting for her and wonders what bothers her more. The kids who just assume she'll answer them when they ask her intrusive questions about that night _Hi Mac! It's Stephanie!_ , or the kids who feel the need to explain themselves before they even begin _I sat three rows behind you and to the left in English_. Neither of them really lay claim to her experiences. 

She thinks about the fact that half of the emails are obviously reporters looking for a story and thinks about the fact that she's not even surprised that her email was leaked out, most likely sold.

"Not now." Mac's voice sounds a little scratchy, even to her. 

"Do you know a boy named Wallace? He seems eager to speak to you."

Mac thinks about another boy with a shy smile. A boy who shared secret jokes with Veronica, who looked at her with gentle eyes and always made sure she was okay even when Veronica was breaking down. 

She thinks about him and smiles. 

"Wait!" Mac calls out. "I'll take it."

***  
***

People think she's heartless. She doesn't really care, so maybe it's true. People also think she's witless and simple, but she knows that they're wrong on that count. Behind her wide, expensively tailored smile and large, even more expensive breasts Kendall Casablancas knows a lot more than people give her credit for. 

It takes a lot of energy to be dismissed so readily. 

She knows a lot of secrets in this town, enough to blow trouble up several chimneys, but she's patient enough to let them all simmer and seethe until the time presents itself for her to use them. 

Very much like the secret she has tucked away in her briefcase, a small little blossom of an idea that she's been nurturing for months now, or the delicious little secret she witnessed earlier. The one that slid her plans right into place, like the well-oiled components of a lock being picked. 

Slide. Rasp. Click. Mesh. 

There isn't much time to lose, she has to move now, when the figurative iron is hot and she can bend it to her will. A smile plays on her lips when she thinks about the absolute symmetry of it. There is no such thing as too perfect, any trophy wife in Neptune can tell you that for free, but she thinks this definitely comes close. 

Know your enemies. It's one of the key rules to survival. Know them, know when to strike a killing blow and, most importantly, know when to swallow pride and play nice. 

It's this little philosophy that finds her walking into the office of Keith Mars. 

And running face to face straight into Logan Echolls, sucking face with none other than Veronica Mars. 

It doesn't hurt; it doesn't even sting. She's not even surprised. Other people may think so, but she's no fool, she had no real interest in him beyond a quick thrill and his bank balance. Now that she doesn’t have need of either, she doesn't have need of him. He's barely a blip on her radar right now. 

The same can't be said, it gives her a small flush of triumph to notice, for the reverse. Veronica's face turns stony and Kendall recognizes the flair of possession that throbs over the girl's skin. It's too adorable for words. And Logan wears that smirk, the all too knowing grin that says _See? This is what you could never be._

Fine by her. Seriously, Kendall never wanted to be that anyway. So there's no loss here. 

"Aw. Young love. No, no. Hold that position. Normal Rockwell wants to come in and paint you two. Did he pin on his pin, or was he too shy?"

She could tell them it's about time, that they've been dancing around each other all year; that everyone saw it coming, but she doesn't. There’s no point and spouting platitudes really isn't her style. They certainly don't need her approval. She can see it in Logan's eyes, something that was never there when they snarked and bitched and provoked each other: happiness. 

It was inevitable, she knew it all the way back to last summer when she and Logan first started their little liaison. When she'd gone to Cassidy, purely out of interest and nothing else, and asked. She remembers that Cassidy had blushed; he’d actually blushed. 

_So, is it true? This Veronica that Dick talks about, that got her claws into Logan, is she really that much of a slut?  
No. I mean, Dick talks big, but that's all it is. Veronica, she's cool. She does detective stuff for her dad._

Of course, that was before Cassidy turned out to be a psycho who blew up all his friends and a plane to boot. It's a good thing that Kendall was always half way decent to him; she has no particular need to be blown to smithereens. 

She'd known the name and she'd pressed it, even to the point of acting surprised when she'd read it on his phone, pressed it because it was a sore point. And when she'd finally seen the face to go with the name, _iPod girl and her waxy eared boyfriend,_ it hadn't taken long to put two and two together. Being followed around by a detective's daughter only to have your fraudulent husband questioned by federal police days later isn’t exactly a mind boggler. 

"Why are you here?"

Her crowning moment, she's not too modest to say, was in the hotel suite that morning, seeing both their faces when she came to pull him back from the door. Not that she had a particularly driving need to come between them, god no, but Veronica had been the one to follow Liam, _Liam Fitzpatrick, Irish Crime Lord no less_ , to her house. Payback was always a bitch. 

"Yeah." Logan says pointedly. "I didn’t know you could come out during daylight hours."

Oh, she thinks, ouch. Except, not really. She has much more important things to think about, so she pushes herself from the wall with her shoulders and brushes past them. 

"I have a business proposition for your father."

"Okay." Veronica's voice follows her into the office, petulant and childish. "But I’m warning you, he doesn’t carry much cash."

_I'm counting on it, little girl._

Kendall knows what people think of her, that she's cheap and easy, but she doesn't really care. She has no misconceptions about who or what she is. The men who use her body pay well and dearly, there's nothing cheap or easy about it. 

That isn't why she's here, looking at Keith Mars as he looks at her, both of them remembering the last time she was here. Her computer hard drive and a man with an empty gun. 

"I need you to do something for me." She can feel it throb in the case in her hands. 

"Well." He sighs and she can see the words running through his head, _seedy_ and _below me_. "I'll be back in a week and at that time I'll be happy to..."

She doesn't have a week and neither does he. 

"I need it right now."

Her voice is supposed to be insistent and it comes off a little desperate as she brings the case up to the desk.

"Sorry Mrs. Casablancas, but I'm meeting my daughter in an hour."

 _No, no you're not. I'll bet the pool house._

"I think." She says through a tense tight jaw. "You'll change your mind."

Her fingers caress the buckles of the case as she flips them open, slowly coming to the big reveal. She can see his answer in his face. 

_Gotcha._

"Like I said." Kendall Casablancas knows lots of secrets in this town and she's patient enough to wait until she can use them to her advantage. "It's important."

***  
***

Veronica checks her watch again. 

“Don’t do that.”

She rolls her eyes, but a smile lingers on her lips as she blinks too innocently. 

“What?” 

“Seriously.” Logan taps the steering wheel with his fingertips and keeps his eyes on the road. “It’s, like, three minutes since you last checked it. Relax, we’ll get there.”

Three minutes, she thinks, which now makes the time 8:47. She’s supposed to meet her father at the gate at nine am. Their flight takes off at nine twenty five. He’s going to kill her if she’s late. 

She’s going to do it for him if she’s late. 

Stupid traffic. 

Her stomach flutters at the thought of New York, all the things her and her father have been talking about for years, idle wishes on quiet Sunday afternoons and the solid promise of them at her graduation. 

It was only days ago, but it feels like years. 

“Can’t you go any faster?” She says instead. 

Logan takes his eyes off the road to glare at her. It’s not a mean glare, more a frustrated, but entirely amused glare of having spent the last thirty minutes trying to drive through traffic with her getting more and more anxious as the time wears on. 

“Me? Yes.” His lips curve up as he turns back to the front. “The cars in front? Apparently not.”

“Ha ha.”

The big yellow X-Terra crawls towards the exit and she sits back in the seat. She feels his hand, warm and familiar, come to rest on the side of her face, fingers cupping her chin. 

“A week isn’t that long, you know.”

She smiles even deeper into his touch. 

“You said it was a month.” Her eyes close and she feels herself begin to relax. “You said that you didn’t know.”

“Yes.” His voice is calm and still amused. “But you said you did know, you said you were never wrong.”

Veronica pictures them, not that long ago, captured against the wall of the office hallway. He hasn’t stopped touching her all day, the few hours they’ve actually been awake, and she honestly can’t say she minds. 

He ran his hands over her arms, her neck, her face and she leaned into him. They did it all throughout the apartment as she packed, with Logan quite determinedly vetoing any clothing choice that included ‘mini’ in the title and she pouted until he agreed. They’re doing it now, sweeping hands across the console to make contact, skin on skin. 

They’d made out on the couch like desperately horny teenagers and she’d ended up showering in record time just to make it to the office by eight. She doesn’t want to know the details of how he’d managed to get three cars returned to their owners and then met her there on time. There are probably a few laws broken in that story. 

She’d rather think about them touching. 

“Veronica?”

“Mm?” Her eyelids twitch. 

“Veronica? Hey. Sleeping beauty. We’re here.”

She sits up straight, eyes wide, and Logan laughs as she takes in the line of cars that make up the exit ramp leading to the airport. 

“Hell, Logan.” It’s a pout. “You’re going to hell.”

He laughs as the car eases forward. 

“I can’t believe your dad gave me the keys to your apartment.”

Neither can she, really. Something has changed and they both know it. It doesn’t take much mental power to figure out it has something to do with the night before, with her telling her dad about the rape. 

_The rape._

The words still ring hollow in her head, loud and empty, but they don’t leave her breathless and dizzy anymore. They don’t chill her to the bone quite so much. 

It also doesn’t take a genius to know that Keith is hiding something from her, that when she walked into the office he’d been frantically scrubbing at something in the kitchen sink and had quickly disappeared into his office and closing the door behind him. 

_Wait, Dad, is that blood?  
What? No. Of course not. Don’t be silly._

But when he’d opened the door again he’d been wearing a different shirt and hadn’t met her eyes.

“Just don’t blow it up.” Just a small amount of tease in her voice. “We’d like to come back to a home. And we don’t have maids, either, so you’re gonna have to clean something. And…”

“And feed the dog at least once while you’re gone and don’t open the door to strangers and don’t tell anyone on the phone that mommy and daddy aren’t home.” Logan grins further. “Veronica, would you relax?”

“Yes.” She nods. “When I’m on the plane and nothing has gone wrong.”

He flashes her a shocked look. 

“Are you trying to jinx yourself? What are you doing?”

The giggle bubbles up in her throat. 

“Now who needs to relax? I know the drill, Logan, so do you. Big, fiery, near death confrontations are always followed by periods of peace and tranquility.” If her voice sounds a little bitter, neither of them mentions it. “Just to lull us into false sense of security for next time.”

His fingers tighten on the wheel and his shoulders set. 

“There won’t be a next time, Veronica.”

“No.” And maybe her voice isn’t as confident as it should be. “Of course not.”

It takes another ten minutes to reach the drop off section of the terminal. There are very few songs over the radio that she likes, so she closes her eyes again and tries not to listen to the silence instead. 

She smiles when his hand rests on her thigh. 

“You behave while I’m gone.” 

He grins and hands her the bag from the back seat. 

“Don’t worry about me, Veronica.” He winks. “You better behave.”

And she laughs as he drives off, spinning around and rushing to the gate. Her Dad is going to glare at her for being so late. 

***  
***

He can’t stop looking at the briefcase on the table. She’d left it there. No doubt realizing that he wouldn’t be able to talk himself out of it if he had the constant reminder. 

Keith shakes his head and reaches for the phone. 

Timing is everything. If Kendall had come into his office weeks ago, even the day before, he’d have been able to look her in the eye and say no. Most likely, if she’d come into the office in a week, like he’d asked, he’d have been able to turn down her offer. 

But today, he can’t do it. He just can’t. 

“Mr. Mars?” Logan’s voice is puzzled when he finally answers and Keith realizes he must have the office keyed into his phone. “You’re not at the airport? I just dropped Veronica at…”

“Look, Logan.” There isn’t any time to waste. “Veronica’s cell isn’t getting reception. I need you to follow directions without asking questions. Can you do that?”

There’s a heavy silence and Keith can just picture Logan’s face, a hint of confusion battling with the rebel inside. He knows, just knows that Logan’s first instinct is to tell him where to go. 

“Sure.”

“Turn the car around and go back to the airport.” He says it as if it’s no big deal. None at all. “I’ve already called the airline and changed my ticket to your name. Meet Veronica at the gate and explain to her that I can’t make it.”

He can hear the gasp over the phone. 

“Wait, what? You’re not…?”

“I don’t have time.” Keith insists. “Look, I can’t go to New York right now, something has come up. Veronica needs a holiday and I don’t want her here right now.”

“Um… okay.” There’s hesitation in Logan’s voice and that’s perfectly understandable. “And you’re giving your ticket to me?”

That’s the part that Keith’s having the most trouble with, sure, but it’s an issue for another day. It’s a little bit further down on his list of things to worry about right now. 

“Look, hand your keys into the lost and found desk and I’ll pick up your car later. I’ll courier you a bag of clothes to the hotel. Got it?”

Through the line, Keith can hear the sudden blasting of car horns and he doesn’t even want to picture whatever illegal move Logan just made. He doesn’t need to know, doesn’t want to know. 

“And Logan?”

“Oh, I know this part.” Logan’s voice sounds a little more confident with this. “Hurt her and don’t bother coming back?”

“That too.” Keith chuckles. “I was going to say: make sure she has fun.”

That organized, Keith hangs up and rests his eyes on the briefcase again. He’s not overly worried about the chance of Logan hurting Veronica, not intentionally. After everything she’d told him and everything he’d seen, the most comforting thing was seeing her happy once more. 

Even if it was sleeping on top of Logan Echolls. 

The kid isn’t perfect, but he’s trying. 

He puts them both out of his mind. There really isn’t any room for distraction and he’s running out of time to call Kendall back. She’d walked into his office, confident and strutting like a peacock. 

Of course, she’d had every right to be, because she held the trump card of all trump cards. 

_Like I said, it’s important._

Keith hadn’t been able to breathe as he’d looked down and realized what she was saying, he could taste it on his tongue and feel it in the slight ache of his knuckles. 

_I need your help with the local Sheriff._

***  
THE END.


	15. six month update ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica Mars has a reputation for going out of her way to disrupt the plans of the Sheriff’s office and nothing has changed. She’s not even sure anyone cares about this particular truth, or if it’s just smoke she’s been chasing, a ball of guilt dangling somewhere inside where she needs just a taste of bitterness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a livejournal meme in which afrocurl asked for a six month update prompt on this fic.

*~*~*~*  
MOLASSES AND TAFFY (six month update).  
*~*~*~*

“Mars Investigations.” She answers the phone without thinking now. “Veronica speaking.”

“Hey honey.” Her father chuckles through the line. “Just wanted to let you know I’ll probably be home a little late tonight. You think you and Logan can man the fort?”

She doodles a random sketch on the notepad in the middle of her desk. If she squints a little, maybe, it looks almost like a bird. Or a car. The nib of the pen scratches over the same line over and over again, scoring it deep into the paper. 

“No problemo.”

“I said late.” He warns, humor evident in his voice. “Not completely absent. Let’s see if you can keep it decent this time, okay?”

It comes up like a blush and she swears he can see it over the phone. 

“Once! It was once. And in our defense, Backup was supposed to be standing watch. Did he warn us? No. Just between you and me, dad, I think he’s slipping.” 

The call leaves her smiling and she hangs up with a little sigh. There are new photos that line her desk now. Keith and Logan and her, in any and all combinations of the three. Her camera echoes her newfound fascination with the new dynamics of her life. 

It’s possible, not highly probable, but definitely within the ranges of possibility, that she might actually be happy. College treats her more than well, she loves her classes, she adores her friends, her criminology tutor has suggested an FBI program that she doesn’t want to get particularly excited about, but does. 

Veronica dials another number, familiar and welcome, and waits for the answer. 

“Echolls Crematorium.” Comes the cheery, singsong voice. “You kill ‘em, we grill ‘em.”

“Lovely.” It’s said with a sigh, but there’s a smile in her voice and she knows he can hear it. “Just you and me for dinner. Want to pick up some Italian? Meet me later, say eight-ish?” 

She’s fully aware that her run of good luck started at around the same time he surprised her at the gate inside the airport, cockily striding up and blowing off her confusion to whisk her away to New York. Although she felt Keith’s absence strongly in all the plans they followed through without him, Veronica and Logan had an almost perfect two weeks. 

They’re happy now and sometimes she might be guilty of pinching herself, staring wide eyed into space and waiting for the ball to drop, looking for the one flaw that’s sure to appear. It’ll start like a tiny crack, something not even worth noticing, until it spreads, insidious and hungry, and destroys everything she’s worked for. 

She tries not to think like that and, more often than not, she succeeds. 

Logan has been training her, a duty he has taken on board with a seriousness and purpose which almost frightens her at times, to take the good times and not continuously poke and prod until she finds the man behind the curtain. 

They have a growing circle of friends, Wallace and Mac and their respective roommates, Piz and Parker. Sometimes Dick tags along, but not always and she gets the idea that Logan doesn’t always share the truth about the talks they have when she’s not around. She finds she doesn’t really care. 

“Eight?” He sounds genuinely surprised for a second, until his voice grows deeper and more serious. “You got a lead, didn’t you?”

There’s no point hiding it. 

“Yeah.” Even she can hear the excitement building in her voice, the expectation. “A big one.”

His sigh curls around her ear lobe. 

“Veronica, please…” 

And he leaves it at that, a gentle warning. She knows what follows. Please be careful. Please let this go. Please let me come along. Please get your head checked out as soon as humanly possible. 

“Nothing big.” She promises him. “I won’t even have to leave the zipcode. I promise.”

“Yeah, like that means anything.” There’s a tense moment when history threatens to push through, but they’ve both talked about it and they’ve both made peace in their own way. “Look, you need me to come along?”

A small, disbelieving chuckle escapes her throat. 

“Yeah, right, like that’d be a good idea.”

Logan’s peace is the uneasy truce to trust her to distinguish when she needs help or not. He doesn’t always like it and she knows he would rather spend his time hunking down in the passenger seat of the Le Baron bored out of his mind than waiting nervously all by himself for her phone call. 

Her peace is the admission that, yes, sometimes she does need extra help, a little bit of added security. And she thinks she’s done well in asking for it. It’s not always easy, but she does. When she really needs it. 

And they both talk. They talk more than either of them is strictly comfortable with, but it does make things better and it has become easier. 

“Hey.” His protest is short lived and half hearted. “I’m ever the gentleman, thank you.”

But they both know that this is the one case he wouldn’t be. 

“Eight.” She confirms again. “And I expect a double order of manicotti.”

He chuckles. 

“Being a bossy bitch sure makes you hungry, doesn’t it?” Before she can even object, he’s turned serious again. “Does he know?”

It’s her turn to sigh and she rolls her eyes, looking at the ceiling.

“Who, dad?” But it’s useless asking, because they both know that’s what he means. “I hope not. And he better not find out, either, Logan, this is too big…”

She’s been working this case for six months and nothing has given her more setbacks since Lilly’s case. Logan knows it, too. He’s helped her through most of it, run a lot of the groundwork; body guarded his way through her footwork. 

And all for a case she knows he would gladly celebrate the forgetting of. 

“You know what he’d do if he found out…”

That’s all Logan has to say and it’s already enough to send shivers down her spine. 

Yeah, she knows. 

“I can’t let it go.”

And that’s all she has to say, because he knows that too. 

“Eight o’clock.” He says it firmly, darkly, like a set promise she has to stick to or else.

“Love you.” 

She whispers the words just before she hangs up. It’s addictive, knowing what those few words do to him and how. They were hard to rustle up out of nowhere at first, they sounded rusty and unused and wrong coming out of her mouth, but she’s had plenty of practice and she’s glad. 

She doesn’t always wait for him to say it back, so she knows he’s going to be eager to see her later, just to reciprocate. 

Until then, she has work to do. 

Veronica turns her computer off, shutting the screen down, and goes about flicking switches. She’s done it a million times. Lights on, lights off, appliances in the kitchen to be turned off, although the coffee maker has a safety switch that can be reset if she forgets and leaves it burning all night, she found that one out quickly enough. 

She always makes sure the safe is locked. 

It was after four thirty when she got the call from her long given up contact. A line of clues that she’d thought dead, withered, shriveled up and lost with most of the leads she’d gotten. But as she’d listened to the brief, emotionless description, the address, that old familiar tingle had begun inside her veins. 

The thrill of the hunt. 

The absolute surety that _this is it_ and she will get her answers after so long. 

She’s not even sure of the reception she’ll get if she does turn up, knocking on the door, ready to blow the truth into the water. 

Veronica Mars has a reputation for going out of her way to disrupt the plans of the Sheriff’s office and nothing has changed. She’s not even sure anyone cares about this particular truth, or if it’s just smoke she’s been chasing, a ball of guilt dangling somewhere inside where she needs just a small taste of bitterness. 

Her career is making mountains out of molehills. 

There are ways she has changed, she knows it, and mostly it’s for the better. She works in the Mars Investigations office every day after uni, between classes, sometimes on weekends if she can convince Logan to let her go, but she refuses to make any of the work more important than her personal life. 

There is not one file on her desk, in any of the folders that she wouldn’t drop in an instant if it got in the way of her new life with Logan. Or her dad. 

It hasn’t always been sunshine and roses and little fluffy ducks with daisies and daffodils. There were times, just after she got back from New York for instance, that there were fights with her dad. Long, drawn out, vicious fights, complete with allegations and tears and recriminations. 

They’re mostly past that stage. At least, both sides are well versed in hiding it if they’re not. 

Keith loves her and that will never change, not even with the memory of the sinking feeling she’d gotten in the airport when she and Logan had first returned. That initial bloom of betrayal and secrecy. She’s happy for him, so much more than she can ever express, but she can’t always wrap her brain around the way it happened. 

***

_(Five months and two weeks earlier...)_

_“There they are! There they are!”_

_They get their first real taste of the press when they step foot back on Californian soil, arms weighed down by the cases they just picked up from baggage claim. It was easy enough to avoid them in New York, no one knew Logan was going to be there, but they’d been expecting some press after Aaron’s death. It was inevitable._

_As practiced, at Logan’s insistence, Veronica falls away, slumps down and turns, ignores the cameras and leaves him to them. He knew how to handle them, he’d said, and it would be better for all involved if she just melts away and lets him do his thing. He’s been dealing with the press his entire life._

_But they don’t follow Logan at all._

_“Miss Mars!” They chase her towards a newsstand. “Miss Mars, who are you voting for?”_

_She blinks at the camera flashes that go off in her eyes and she barely has time to ask what they mean before she feels a comforting and familiar arm go around her shoulders._

_“No comment.” Logan says firmly, pulling her to the side. “Just leave us alone.”_

_“Miss Mars! Veronica!”_

_They don’t leave her alone and she’s confused. Logan grabs her bag out of her unwilling hand and begins to physically drag her away from the crowd._

_But it’s too late._

_She’s seen the headlines on the papers._

_They got home two days early to surprise her dad and it looks like he’s been preparing a surprise of his own._

_***_

_By the time she storms into his office, she’s nearly crying, she’s so angry._

_“You didn’t tell me!”_

_She doesn’t even see the crowd of people she’s pushing through, not really, vaguely recognizing Cliff and Alicia and Vinnie and some other people out of the corner of her eye. Keith looks up at her with surprise, guilt flashing across his face before he recovers and ushers people out into the lobby, leaving them alone._

_There’s not enough space, not to hold him and his half formed apologies and her with her anger radiating out of every pore._

_“Veronica, please…”_

_“How could you not tell me?” She throws the first of the papers on his desk. “How?”_

_EMERGENCY RECALL ELECTION TODAY. MARS FOR SHERIFF?_

_“Don’t!” One hand stops his approach as she glares through her tears. “You weren’t going to tell me at all! You were just going to let us come back on Monday and it would have been over! It would have been done! You didn’t say anything!”_

_Keith stands still, three feet from her, looking like he wants to reach out and draw her in for a hug, but can’t._

_“And this?” The second paper is tossed to the desk. “What do you know about this?”_

_MYSTERY SURROUNDS DISAPPEARANCE OF FORMER SHERIFF._

_“Veronica…”_

_Her hands tear at the pages, nearly ripping as she turns them, her fingers stabbing at the smaller headlines of the second, third and fourth pages._

_“You know!” It’s an accusation, heady and unchangeable. “Don’t even try to tell me you don’t.”_

_“He quit, Veronica.” Keith’s voice comes out strangely calm and practiced. “He handed in his resignation and then he left town. That’s all there is to it.”_

_She gets chills._

_“The reports said he was beaten. But you already know that, don’t you?” Her teeth bite down hard on her top lip as she struggles for control. “I saw blood on your shirt that morning. The morning after I told you…”_

_He doesn’t meet her eyes and Veronica takes a deep breath._

_“What did you do?”_

_There is no answer, just deafening silence in their little cocoon, a pocket of still air amid the bustle that is the outer office, the buzz and chatter of a crowd counting down._

_A knock interrupts the conversation no one is having._

_“Congratulations, Sheriff Mars.” Somebody Veronica doesn’t recognize pokes his head around the corner. “You won.”_

***

Veronica parks the car and stares at the small house for a long, long time. 

It’s a little further out than she told Logan, but not so that she’ll be late in meeting him. 

He answers on the fifth knock and she’s not exactly sure what she’s expecting, other than he doesn’t really look at all different and she wasn’t expecting that at all. His eyes widen when he sees her and it’s a response she’s getting used to, that frightened deer in the headlights look her mother got in that bar. 

But he recovers quickly. 

“Veronica Mars.” A quick look over her shoulder and he seems to relax a little. “Why am I not surprised? You want a beer?”

He turns and walks back into the house, leaving her standing in the open doorway feeling extremely anticlimactic. 

She takes a tentative step forward, then another, not entirely sure she wants this, this strange level of intimacy from this man. The knowledge of his little life beyond the getting of a name and impersonal details like addresses and phone numbers. 

“You’re a hard man to find.” It seems like a safe thing to say. “I was about to give up.”

“I think that was the point.” He pushes a bottle into her hand and she looks down at it. “Why are you here?”

Her fingers fiddle nervously with the label and her stomach curls at the very thought of accepting anything from him. 

“Who did it?” She blurts it out suddenly, unrestrained, like a belch. “What happened?”

His chuckle is bitter and unforgiving. 

“I quit, Veronica, isn’t that what all the reports ended up saying? I quit and then I left. What else can I do for you?”

She meets his eyes. 

“My dad.” He doesn’t respond and she doesn’t need him to. “And Kendall. Somehow they got you to change your name and fall off the map.”

His fingers and harsh and unforgiving as they pry hers open and take the bottle back.

“If that’s all, you can go now. Nobody wants to know, Veronica, nobody cares.”

It’s an inexplicable surge of needing to insist that, yes, she does. She cared and she damn well found him and doesn’t that count for anything at all. Brief and fleeting, it passes, and Veronica realizes that she doesn’t particularly care about the details. 

She has what she needs, confirmation, her suspicions justified, the alleviating of her guilt, the knowledge that her revelations didn’t cause somebody else, even someone she hated, permanent physical damage. 

“It’s better.” That’s what she gives him as a parting gift. “Life is so much better without you, Deputy.”

Then she gets back in her car and goes back to her life. 

***


End file.
